THREE 
PLAYS 

BY 

A  A.MILNE 


The  Dover  Road 
The  Truth  about  Blayc 
The  Great  Broxopp 


Three  Plays 


The  Dover  Road 

The  Truth  About  Blayds 

The  Great  Broxopp 

By 
A.  A.  Milne 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 
£hr  ICttirkf rborkrr 


Copyright,  PQ22,  by 
A.  A.  Milne 


First  Printing,  July  1922 

Second  Printing,  November  1922 

Third  printing,  August,  1924 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  DOVER  ROAD :.          1 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  BLAYDS        ....        99 
THE  GREAT  BROXOPP        ...        „,        •,        ,.,        ..       191 


iii 


THE 

DOVER 

ROAD 

An 

Absurd 

Comedy 


FOREWORD 

THOSE  who,  having  previously  seen  "The  Dover 
Road,"  are  now  going  to  read  it  will  find  that 
Anne  does  not,  after  all,  marry  Mr.  Latimer. 
They  may,  perhaps,  assume  that  this  is  how  I  originally 
wrote  the  play,  and  that  I  was  persuaded,  against  my 
better  judgment,  into  a  so-called  happy  ending  which 
left  Anne  with  the  sound  of  wedding-bells  in  her  ears. 
I  owe  it  to  Mr.  McClintic,  who  produced  the  play  so 
delightfully,  to  explain  that  such  was  not  the  case.  I 
wrote  it  originally  as  he  produced  it;  but,  even  as  I 
wrote,  I  felt  that  I  did  not  want  Anne  married;  I  was 
so  much  in  love  with  her.  To  rescue  her  from  Leonard 
was  easy ;  to  save  her  from  Nicholas  was  more  difficult ; 
and,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  while  I  was  triumphing 
over  Nicholas,  Mr.  Latimer  got  her.  Dominic  and  I 
were  both  a  little  disappointed,  but  we  said  nothing.  I 
knew  that  I  should  have  another  chance  later  on. 
"Wait,"  I  said  to  the  smiling  Mr.  Latimer,  "until  we 
get  to  rehearsals.  Marry  you  ?  Why,  she  doesn't  even 
know  your  Christian  name!"  But  I  didn't  think  then 
that  the  first  rehearsals  would  happen  thousands  of 
miles  from  Dover,  and  that  I  should  not  be  there  to 
save  her.  I  expect  Mr.  Latimer  knew.  That  is  why 
he  smiled.  But  of  course  once  I  got  down  to  it,  he 

3 


4  Foreword 

stood  no  chance.  It  is  the  printed  word  which  remains, 
and  here  in  print  we  have  her  saved.  However,  Mr. 
Latimer  still  smiles.  He  always  knew  in  his  heart  that 
he  was  too  old  for  her.  In  fact,  sometimes  I  think  that 
he  and  Anne  only  pretended  in  order  to  frighten 
Dominic. 

A.  A.  M. 


The  Original  Cast  of 
"The  Dover  Road" 

The  first  performance  on  any  stage  was  at  the  Bijou 
Theatre,  New  York  City,  on  Friday  afternoon,  De- 
cember 23,  1921. 

THE  HOUSE 
DOMINIC,  George  Riddell 
THE  STAFF,  Phyllis  Carrington 

Ann  Winslow 

Edwin  H.  Morse 

George  Nolan 

LATIMER,  Charles  Cherry 

THE  GUESTS 
LEONARD,  Reginald  Mason 
ANNE,  Winifred  Lenihan 
EUSTASIA,  Molly  Pearson 
NICHOLAS,  Lyonel  Watts 

The  Play  was  produced  by  Guthrie  McClintic. 


PEOPLE  IN  THE  PLAY 

THE  HOUSE 
DOMINIC 

THE  STAFF 
MR.  LATIMER 

THE  GUESTS 
LEONARD 

ANNE 

EUSTASIA 

NICHOLAS 

The  Scene  is  the  reception  room  of  Mr.  Latimer's 
house,  a  little  way  off  the  Dover  Road. 
Act     I.     Evening. 
Act  II.     Next  morning. 
Act  HI.     Scene  I.     The  same. 

Scene  II.     Three  days  later. 


ACT  I 

What  Mr.  Latimer  prefers  to  call  the  reception  room 
of  his  hou-se  is  really  the  hall.  You  come  straight 
into  it  through  the  heavy  oak  front  door.  But 
this  door  is  so  well  built,  so<  well  protected  by  a 
thick  purple  curtain,  and  the  room  so  well  warmed 
by  central  heating,  tliat  none  of  the  usual  disad- 
vantages of  a  hall  on  a  November  night,  attaches 
to  it.  Just  now,  of  course,  all  the  curtains  are< 
drawn,  so  tlmt  the  whole  of  this  side  of  the  hall 
is  purple-hung.  In  the  middle  of  tlie  room,  a 
little  to  the  right  is  a  mahogany  table,  cloth-less, 
laid  for  three.  A  beautiful  blue  bowl,  filled  with 
purple  anemones,  helps,  with  the  silver  and  the 
old  cut  glass,  to  decorate  it.  Over  the  whole 
room  there  is  something  of  an  Arabian-night- 
adventure  air;  Dulac  might  have  had  a  hand  in 
the  designing  of  it.  In  the  day  time,  perhaps,  it 
it  an  ordinary  hall,  furnished  a  trifle  freakishly, 
but  in  the  night  time  one  wonders  what  is  going 
to  happen  next. 

Dominic,  tall,  stout  and  grave,  the  major-domo 
of  the  house,  in  a  butler's  old-fashioned  evening 
dress,  comes  in.  He  stands  looking  at  the  room 
to  see  that  dl  is  a-s  it  should  be,  then  walks  to 
the  table  and  gives  a  little  touch  to  it  here  and 
there.  He  turns  round  and  waits  a  moment.  The 
Staff  materialises  suddenly — two  footmen  and 
two  chambermaids.  The  men  come  from  the  left, 
the  women  from  the  right;  over  their  clothes  too 
Mr.  Latimer  has  been  a  little  freakish.  They  stand 

in  a  line. 

7 


8  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:    The  blue  room  in  the  East  wing  is  ready? 

The  Men:    Yes,  Mr.  Dominic. 

Dominic:  The  white  room  in  the  West  wing  is 
ready  ? 

The  Women:     Yes,  Mr.  Dominic. 

Dominic:  (Taking  out  his  watch  and  looking  at 
it.)  The  procedure  will  be  as  before. 

The  Four:    Yes,  Mr.  Dominic. 

Dominic:  See  to  it  that  I  have  no  fault  to  find. 
That  will  do. 

(They  go  out.  He  looks  at  his  watch  again 
and  then  follows  the  men.  He  is  hardly  out 
of  the  room,  when  a  bell  rings.  He  returns 
slowly,  draws  the  curtain  from  the  front 
door  and  opens  it.  Leonard,  in  fur-coat  and 
cap,  is  seen  standing  outside.  He  is  a  big 
well-made  man  of  about  35 — dark,  with  a 
little  black  tooth-brush  moustache.  When 
the  door  opens  he  gets  his  first  sight  of  the 
interior  of  the  room  and  is  evidently  taken 
by  surprise.) 

Leonard:  Oh — er — is  this — er — an  hotel?  My 
chauffeur  said — we've  had  an  accident,  been  delayed 
on  the  way — he  said  that  we  could  put  up  here — (He 
turns  round  and  calls.)  Here,  Saunders!  This  can't 
be  the  place.  (To  Dominic.)  Perhaps  you  could  tell 

Anne:  (From  outside,  invisible.)  Saunders  has 
gone,  Leonard. 

Leonard:  (Turning  round.')  Gone!  What  the 
devil — (He  plunges  into  the  darkness.) 

Dominic:  Saunders  was  perfectly  correct,  my  lord. 
This  is  a  sort  of  hotel. 


The  Dover  Road  9 

Anne:  (Getting  out  of  the  car,  but  still  invisible.) 
He  went  off  as  soon  as  you  got  out  of  the  car.  Leonard, 
are  you  sure ? 

(She  comes  into  the  light;  he  is  holding  her  arm. 
She  is  young,  tall,  pretty;  cool  and  self- 
confident  in  the  ordinary  way,  but  a  little 
upset  by  the  happenings  of  the  night.) 

Dominic:  (To  Leonard.)  Saunders  was  perfectly 
correct,  my  lord.  This  is  a  sort  of  hotel. 

Leonard:  (Puzzled  and  upset.)  What  the  devil's 
happened  to  him?  (He  looks  out  into  the  darkness.) 

Dominic:  Doubtless  he  has  gone  round  to  the 
garage  to  get  the  doors  open.  Won't  your  lord- 
ship  

Leonard:  You  can  put  us  up?  Just  for  tonight. 
My — er — wife  and  myself 

Dominic:  If  your  lordship  and  her  ladyship  will 
come  in (He  waits  for  them.) 

Leonard:  (To  Anne.)  It's  the  best  we  can  do, 
dear.  I'm  frightfully  sorry  about  it,  but,  after  all, 
what  difference 

Anne:  (Giving  him  a  look  which  means  "Don't 
talk  like  this  in  front  of  hotel  servants.")  I  daresay 
it  will  be  quite  comfortable.  It's  only  for  one  night. 
(She  comes  in,  followed  'by  Leonard.) 

Dominic:     Thank — you,  my  lady. 

(He  shuts  and  bolts  the  doors:  then  draws  the 
curtains.  There  is  an  adr  of  finality  about  it. 
Anne  looks  back  at  the  noise  of  the  bolts  go- 
ing home,  with  something  of  a  start.  They 
are  locked  in  now  for  good.  Leonard,  his 
eye  on  the  supper-table,  is  saying  to  himself, 
t(Dashcd  rummy  sort  of  hotel.") 


io  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:  Allow  me,  my  lady.  (He  helps  them 
off  with  their  coats.) 

Leonard:    You  can  give  us  something  to  eat? 

Anne:    I  don't  want  anything,  Leonard. 

Leonard:    Nonsense,  dear. 

Dominic:  Supper  will  be  served  in  five  minutes,  my 
lord. 

Anne:    (Suddenly.)    Do  you  know  who  we  are? 

Dominic:    I  have  not  that  pleasure,  my  lady. 

Anne:    Then  why  do  you  call  me  'my  lady'? 

Leonard:    (Disliking  a  scene.)     My  dear! 

Anne:  (Waving  back  Leonard's  protesting  arm.) 
No,  Leonard.  (To  Dominic.)  Well? 

Dominic:  His  lordship  mentioned  that  your  lady- 
ship was  his  wife. 

Anne:    Y — yes  .  .  .  Then  you  know  him  by  sight  ? 

Leonard:  (Complacently.)  Well,  my  dear,  that 
need  not  surprise  you. 

Dominic:  I  know  his  lordship's  rank,  my  lady.  Not 
his  lordship's  name. 

Leonard:    (Surprised.)    My  rank?    How  the  devil 


Dominic:    Supper  will  be  served  in  five  minutes,  my 
lady.     (He  bows  and  goes  out.) 

(There  is  silence  for  a  little.  They  look  at  the 
table,  at  the  room,  at  each  other.  Then 
Leonard  says  it  aloud.) 

Leonard:    Dashed  rummy  sort  of  hotel! 

Anne:     (Coming   closer   and   holding   his   arms.) 
Leonard,  I  don't  like  it. 

Leonard:    Pooh!    Nonsense,  dear. 


The  Dover  Road  n 

Anne:  It  almost  seems  as  though  they  had  expected 
us. 

Leonard:  (Laughing.}  My  dear  child,  how  could 
they?  In  the  ordinary  way  we  should  have  been  at 
Dover — why,  almost  at  Calais  by  this  time. 

Anne:    I  know.     (In  distress.}     Why  aren't  we? 

Leonard:  The  car — Saunders,  a  fool  of  a  chauffeur 
— a  series  of  unfortunate  accidents- 

Anne:  Do  you  often  have  these  unfortunate  acci- 
dents, Leonard? 

Leonard:  My  dear  Anne,  you  aren't  suggesting 
that  I've  done  this  on  purpose ! 

Anne:  No,  no.  (She  leaves  him  and  goes  and  sits 
down.}  But  why  tonight  of  all  nights ? 

Leonard:  Of  course,  it's  damned  annoying  missing 
the  boat,  but  we  can  get  it  tomorrow  morning.  We 
shall  be  in  Paris  tomorrow  night. 

Anne:  Tomorrow  night — but  that  makes  such  a 
difference.  I  hate  every  hour  we  spend  together  like 
this  in  England. 

Leonard:    Well,  really,  I  don't  see  why 

Anne:  You  must  take  it  that  I  do,  Leonard.  I  told 
you  from  the  first  that  it  was  run-away  or  nothing 
with  me;  there  was  going  to  be  no  intrigue,  no  lies 
and  pretences  and  evasions.  And  somehow  it  seems 
less — less  sordid,  if  we  begin  our  new  life  together  in 
a  new  country.  (With  a  little  smile.}  Perhaps  the 
French  for  what  we  are  doing  is  not  quite  so  crude  as 
the  English  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  it's  absurd  of  me,  but 
there  it  is. 

Leonard:  (With  a  shrug.}  Oh,  well!  (Taking 
out  his  case.}  Do  you  mind  a  cigarette? 


12  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:    (Violently.)    Oh,  why  do  men  always  want 
to  smoke,  even  up  to  the  moment  when  they're  *roin 
to  eat?    Can't  you  breathe  naturally  for  five  minutes? 

Leonard:  (Sulkily,  putting  his  case  back  )  I  1W 
your  pardon. 

Anne:    No,  I  beg  yours. 
Leonard:    You're  all  to  bits. 
Anne:    Nerves,  I  suppose. 

Leonard:  Nonsense!  My  Anne  with  nerves  ?  (Bit- 
terly.) Now  if  it  had  been  Eustasia  _ 

Anne:  (Coldly.)  Really,  Leonard,  I  think  we  had 
better  leave  your  wife  out  of  the  conversation. 

Leonard:    I  beg  your  pardon. 

Anne:  (To  herself.)  Perhaps  you're  right.  In  a 
crisis  we  are  all  alike,  we  women. 

Leonard:  (Going  over  to  her.)  No,  damn  it  I 
won't  have  that.  It's-it's  blasphemy.  Anne  mv 
darling—  (She  stands  up  and  he  takes  her  hands.) 

Anne:    Oh!  ...  I  am  different,  aren't  I? 

Leonard  :    Darl  ing  ! 

Anne:    I'm  not  a  bit  like-like  anybody  else,  am  I, 
not  even  when  I'm  cross? 
Leonard:    Darling! 
Anne:    And  you  do  love  me  ? 

(He  ™nts  to 


Anne:     No.     Now  you're  going  to  smoke.     (She 
settles  him  in  his  chmr,   takes  a  cigarette  from  /m 
case  and  juts  it  in  his  mouth.)     I'll  light  it  for  you 
Matches?     (She  holds  out  her  hand  for  them  ) 

Dominic:  (Who  has  a  way  of  being  there  when 
wanted.)  Matches,  my  lady.  (Hehand^sthemtoher 
They  are  both  rather  confused  ) 


The  Dover  Road  13 

Anne.    Thank  you. 

Leonard:  (Annoyed.)  Thanks.  (He  gets  up, 
takes  the  matches  from  Anne,  and  lights  his  cigarette.) 
(Dominic  gives  a  professional  touch  to  the  table 
and  goes  out.) 

Damn  that  fellow. 

Anne:  (Smiling.)  After  all,  darling,  he  thinks  I'm 
your  wife  .  .  .  Or  don't  wives  light  their  husband's 
cigarettes  ? 

Leonard:  I  believe  you're  right,  Anne.  There's 
something  odd  about  this  place. 

Anne:    So  you  feel  it  now? 

Leonard:  What  did  he  mean  by  saying  he  knew  my 
rank,  but  not  my  name? 

Anne:  (Lightly.)  Perhaps  he  looked  inside  your 
cap — like  Sherlock  Holmes — and  saw  the  embroidered 
coronet. 

Leonard:  How  do  you  mean?  There's  nothing  in- 
side my  cap. 

Anne:    No,  darling.    That  was  a  joke. 
Leonard:    And  the  table  laid.     Only  one  table. 
Anne:    Yes,  but  it's  for  three.     They  didn't  expect 
us. 

Leonard:  (Relieved.)  So  it  is  ...  It's  probably 
a  new  idea  in  hotels — some  new  stunt  of  Harrods — 
or  what's  the  fellow's  name? — Lyons.  A  country- 
house  hotel. 

(Dominic  comes  in.) 

By  the  way,  Anne,  what  will  you  drink?  (To 
Dominic.)  Let  me  have  the  wine-list,  will  you? 

Dominic:  Bollinger  1906  has  been  ordered,  my 
lord. 

Leonard:    Ordered? 


14  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:  Mr.  Latimer  will  be  down  in  two  min- 
utes, my  lady.  He  asks  you  to  forgive  him  for  not 
being  here  to  receive  you. 

Leonard:  Mr.  Latimer?  Who  on  earth's  Mr. 
Latimer? 

Dominic:  If  you  would  wish  to  be  shown  your 
room,  my  lady 

Anne:  (Who  lias  not  taken  her  eyes  off  him.*}  No, 
thank  you. 

Leonard:  (Stepping  forward.}  Look  here,  my 
man,  is  this  an  hotel  or  have  we  come  to  a  private 
house  by  mistake? 

Dominic:  A  sort  of  hotel,  my  lord.  I  assure  your 
lordship  there  is  no  mistake.  Thank  you,  my  lady*. 
(He  goes  out.} 

Anne:  (Laughing  half -hysterically  as  she  sits 
down.)  Very  original  man,  Harrod.  Or  is  it  Lyons? 

Leonard:  Look  here,  I'm  going  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  this.  (He  starts  after  Dominic.) 

Anne:  Why  bother?  Mr.  Latimer  will  be  here  in 
two  minutes. 

Leonard:  (Turning  back.)  Yes,  but  who  the 
devil's  Mr.  Latimer? 

Anne:  (With  interest.}  Leonard,  do  you  always 
arrange  something  fascinating  like  this  when  you 
elope?  I  think  it's  so  romantic  of  you.  But  don't  you 
think  that  the  mere  running  away  is  enough  just  at 
first?  Leaving  the  fogs  and  the  frets  of  England,  the 
weariness  and  the  coldness  of  it,  and  escaping  together 
to  the  warm  blue  sun-filled  South — isn't  that  romantic 
enough?  Why  drag  in  a  mysterious  and  impossible 
inn,  a  mysterious  and  impossible  Mr.  Latimer?  You 


The  Dover  Road  15 

should  have  kept  them  for  afterwards;  for  the  time 
when  the  poetry  was  wearing  out,  and  we  were  begin- 
ning to  get  used  to  each  other. 

Leonard:  My  dear  girl,  what  arc  you  driving  at? 
I  say  again — do  you  really  think  that  I  arranged  all 
this? 

Anne:     (With  a  shrug.)     Well,  somebody  did. 
(The  two  Footmen  and  the  two  Chambermaids 
come  in  and  take  up  positions  on  each  side 
of  the  table.  They  arc  followed  by  Dominic.) 

Dominic:     Mr.  Latimer! 

(Mr.  Latimer  comes  in,  Dominic  and  his  Staff 
retire. ) 

Latimer:    Good  evening! 

(He  boii's  with  an  air.  A  middle-aged  gentle- 
man, dressed  rather  fantastically  as  regards 
his  tic  and  his  dinner-jacket  and  the  flower 
in  his  buttonhole.) 

Leonard:    Good  evening.     Er 

Latimer:  You  will  forgive  me  for  being  announced 
in  my  own  house,  but  I  find  that  it  saves  so  much 
trouble.  If  I  had  just  come  in  and  said,  'I  am  Mr. 
Latimer,'  then  you  would  have  had  to  say,  'And  I  am 
— er — So-and-So,  and  this  is — er —  Exactly.  I  mean 
we  can  get  on  so  much  better  without  names.  But  of 

course 

Leonard:    You  will  excuse  me,  sir,  but 

Latimer:  (Going  happily  on.)  But  of  course,  as 
you  were  just  going  to  say,  we  must  call  each  other 
something.  (Thoughtfully.)  I  think  I  shall  call  you 
Leonard.  There  is  something  about  you — forgive  the 
liberty — something  Leonardish.  (With  a  very  sweet 
smile  to  Anne.)  I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me. 


16  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:  I  am  wondering  whether  this  is  really  hap- 
pening, or  whether  I  am  dreaming  it. 

Latimer:  (His  back  to  Leonard.)  And  Leonard 
isn't  wondering  at  all;  he  is  just  tapping  his  forehead 
with  a  great  deal  of  expression. 

(Leonard,  who  was  doing  this,  stops  in  some 
confusion.) 

Leonard:  (Coldly.)  I  think  we  have  had  enough 
of  this,  Mr.  Latimer.  I  was  giving  you  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt.  If  you  are  not  mad,  then  I  will  ask  you 
for  some  other  explanation  of  all  this  nonsense. 

Latimer:  (Sniffing  at  the  flower  in  his  button- 
hole.) An  impetuous  character,  Leonard.  It  must  be 
so  obvious  to  everybody  else  in  the  room  that  an  ex- 
planation will  be  forthcoming.  But  why  not  a  friendly 
explanation  following  a  friendly  supper? 

Anne:    Are  we  your  guests ? 
Latimer:    Please. 
Anne:    Thank  you. 

Latimer:  But  there  is  still  this  question  of  names. 
Now  we  agreed  about  Leonard 

Anne:  (Looking  at  him  fearlessly.}  My  name  is 
Anne. 

Latimer:    Thank  you,  Miss  Anne. 
Leonard:     (Awkwardly.)     Er — my  wife. 

Latimer:  Then  I  am  tempted  to  leave  out  the 
"Miss." 

Leonard:    (Annoyed  again.)     Look  here 

Latimer:  (Turning  to  him.)  But  there  is  some- 
thing to  look  at,  if  I  do,  Leonard. 

(The  Staff  comes  in.) 


The  Dover  Road  17 

Ah,  supper.     Will  you  sit  here,  Anne?     (He  goes 
to  the  head  of  the  table,  and  indicates  the  chair  on  the 
right  of  him.)     And  you  here,  Leonard?     (The  chair 
on  the  left.)     That's  right. 
(They  all  sit  down. 

Dominic  and  the  Staff  sen'e  the  supper.     Fire 
of  them,  so  things  go  quickly.) 

Latimer:  "A  little  fish,  a  bird,  a  little  sweet. 
Enough  to  drink,  but  not  too  much  to  eat."  I  com- 
posed that  in  my  bath  this  morning.  The  wine  has 
been  waiting  for  you  since  1906. 

(They  are  all  sen'ed  with  fish,  and  the  wine  has 
been  poured  out.) 

Dominic,  dismiss  the  Staff.    \Ve  would  be  alone. 
(They  are  alone.  He  rises,  glass  in  hand.) 

My  friends,  I  will  give  you  a  toast.  (He  raises 
his  glass.)  A  Happy  Ending! 

Anne:     (Lifting  her  glass.)     A  Happy  Ending. 

Latimer:  You  don't  drink,  Leonard.  You  would 
have  the  adventure  end  unhappily,  as  is  the  way  of 
the  modern  novel? 

Leonard:  I  don't  understand  the  beginning  of  it, 
Mr.  Latimer.  I  don't — -you  will  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing so — I  don't  see  how  you  came  into  it.  Who  are 
you? 

Anne:    Our  host,  Leonard. 

Leonard:  So  it  seems,  my  dear.  But  in  that  case, 
how  did  we  come  here?  My  chauffeur  told  us  that 
this  was  an  hotel — your  man  assured  me,  when  I  asked, 
that  it  was  an  hotel,  a  sort  of  hotel.  And  now  it  seems 
that  we  are  in  a  private  house.  Moreover,  we  seem 
to  have  been  expected.  And  then  again — if  you  will 
forgive  me — it  appears  to  be  an  unusual  kind  of  house. 
I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  don't  understand  it. 


1 8  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:    I  see  your  difficulty,  Leonard. 

Leonard:  (Stiffly.)  Nor  am  I  accustomed  to  be- 
ing called  Leonard  by  a  perfect  stranger. 

Latimer:  What  you  are  saying  for  yourself  is. 
"Who  is  this  man  Latimer?  Is  he  known?  Is  he  in 
the  Stud  Book? — I  mean  Debrett.  Is  he  perhaps  one 
of  the  Hammersmith  Latimers,  or  does  he  belong  to 
the  Ealing  Branch?" 

Anne:     (Eating — calmly.)     What  does  it  matter? 

Latimer:  Yes,  but  then  you  like  the  fish.  Leonard 
doesn't. 

Leonard:  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  the  fish.  You 
have  an  excellent  cook. 

Latimer:  (Gravely  bowing.)  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  thank  you. 

(Dominic  comes  in.) 

His  lordship  likes  the  fish. 

Dominic:  Thank  you,  sir.  I  will  inform  the  cook. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Anne:  When  you  are.  giving  us  your  tiresome  ex- 
planations after  supper,  Mr.  Latimer,  I  wish  you  would 
just  add  one  more  to  them. 

Latimer:    But  of  course. 

Anne:  Your  Mr.  Dominic's  appearances  are  so  apt. 
How  is  it  done? 

Latimer:  (Pulling  down  his  cuff.)  Yes.  I'll  make 
a  note  of  that.  (He  writes  on  it.)  Dominic, — Apt 
appearance  of. 

(Dominic  re-appears.) 
Latimer:    Admit  the  bird,  Dominic. 
(Dominic  goes  out.) 

Leonard:  (Rising  stiffly.)  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have 
to  be  getting  on  now,  Mr.  Latimer  .  .  .  Anne,  dear 


The  Dover  Road  19 

.  .  .  We  are  much  obliged  for  your  hospitality,  but 
— er — I  imagine  we  are  not  far  from  Dover 

Latimer:    On  the  Dover  Road,  certainly. 

Leonard:  Exactly.  So  if  you  would — er — have  in- 
structions given  to  my  chauffeur — er — (He  hesitates 
as  the  Staff  comes  in.} 

Latimcr:  Dominic,  his  lordship's  glass  is  empty. 
He  wishes  to  drink  my  health. 

Dominic:  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord.  (The  gloss 
is  filled.) 

Latimcr:  And  while  he  is  up,  just  find  his  lordship 
a  more  comfortable  chair.  He  has  been  a  little  un- 
easy on  that  one  all  through  the  fish. 

Dominic:  (Removing  the  chair.)  I  beg  your  par- 
don, my  lord. 

(A  Servant  approaches  with  another  one.) 

Latimer:  (Rising  with  his  glass  and  drinking  to 
Leonard.)  Prosit!  (He  sits  down,  and  Leonard  me- 
chanically sits  down  too.)  Now  for  the  bird.  (To 
Anne.)  I  like  these  little  ceremonies  in  between  the 
courses.  Don't  you? 

Anne:     I'm  liking  my  supper. 

Latimer:  I  am  so  glad.  (As  Anne  is  helped.)  I 
shot  this  bird  myself.  (He  looks  at  it  through  his 
glass.)  What  is  it,  Dominic? 

Dominic:    Poulct  en  casserole  with  mushrooms,  sir. 

Latimer:  Pcnilet  en  casserole  with  mushrooms.  I 
shot  the  mushrooms  ...  A  large  help  for  his  lord- 
ship, Dominic.  (To  Leonard.)  Let  me  introduce 
your  chicken  to  you,  Leonard.  One  of  the  Buff- 
Orpingtons.  I  daresay  you  know  the  family.  His 
mother  was  a  Wyandotte.  He  was  just  about  to  con- 


2O  The  Dover  Road 

tract   an   alliance   with   one   of   the   Rock   girls,    the 
Plymouth  Rocks,  when  the  accident  happened. 

(They  are  alone  again  now,  plates  and  glasses 
well  filled.  Leonard,  who  has  been  waitifig 
impatiently  for  the  Staff  to  go,  pushes  back 
his  chair  and  gets  up.) 

Latimer:    Dear  me!    Not  a  third  chair,  surely? 

Leonard:  Now  look  here,  Mr.  Latimer,  this  farce 
has  gone  on  long  enough.  I  do  not  propose  to  sit 
through  a  whole  meal  without  some  further  explana- 
tion. Either  we  have  that  explanation  now,  or  else — 
Anne,  dear — or  else  we'll  be  getting  on  our  way. 

Latimer:  (Thoughtfully.)  Ah,  but  which  is  your 
way? 

Leonard:  Dover.  My  chauffeur  seems  to  have  got 
off  the  track  a  little,  but  if  you  can  put  us  on  to  the 
Dover  Road 

Latimer:  (To  himself.)  The  Dover  Road!  The 
Dover  Road!  A  dangerous  road,  my  friends.  And 
you're  travelling  in  the  dark. 

Leonard:  Really,  Mr.  Latimer,  that  needn't  frighten 
us. 

Anne:  (Putting  her  hand  on  his  arm.)  What  do 
you  mean  ? 

Latimer:  A  strange  road,  Anne,  for  you.  A  new 
tmtravelled  road. 

Leonard:  Nonsense.  She's  often  been  this  way  be- 
fore. Haven't  you,  dear? 

Anne:  (Shaking  her  head.)  No  .  .  .  But  I'm  not 
frightened,  Mr.  Latimer. 

(There  is  silence  for  a  little.  Then  Dominic 
appears  noiselessly.) 


The  Dover  Road  21 

Latimer:  Dominic,  supper  is  over.  His  lordship 
loved  the  chicken — too  well  to  eat  it.  He  adored  the 
mushrooms — in  silence.  Inform  the  cook. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 

Latimer:    (Offering  his  case  to  Anne)    A  cigarette? 

Anne:    No,  thank  you. 

Latimer:     You  permit  it? 

Anne:    Of  course. 

Latimer:    Thank  you. 

Dominic:     (To  Leonard.}     Cigar,  my  lord? 

Leonard:    Er — thanks. 

Latimer:    Well,  shall  we ? 

( They  get  up,  and  move  into  more  comfortable 
chairs,  Latimer  talking.} 

Latimer:  Which  chair  would  you  like,  Anne? 
There?  (She  sits  dou>n.)  That's  right.  Now  then, 
Leonard,  we  want  something  especially  comfortable  for 
you.  You  are  a  little  finicky  about  chairs  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so  ...  What  about  that  one?  Just 
try  it  and  see  how  you  like  it. 

(Leonard  tries  it,  and  sinks  into  it  up  to  the 

neck. ) 

Yes,  I  think  you  will  be  happy  there.    And  I  shall  sit 
here.     Now  everything  is  ready. 
(They  are  alone  again.) 

Leonard:  (  With  as  much  dignity  as  is  possible  from 
that  sort  of  chair.)  I  am  waiting,  Mr.  Latimer. 

Latimer:  I  am  waiting,  Leonard,  for  your  questions. 

Anne.  Let  me  begin  with  one.  (He  turns  to  her.) 
Your  table  was  laid  for  three.  For  whom  were  the 
other  two  places  intended? 

Latimer:    For  yourself  and  Leonard. 

Anne:    You  expected  us? 


22  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:     Yes. 

Anne:    How  did  you  know  we  were  coming? 

Latimer:  Saunders  had  his  instructions  to  brini; 
you. 

Leonard:     (Starting  up  from  his  chair — or  tr 
to.)      Saunders!     My  chauffeur!     Do  you  mean   tc 
say 

Latimer:  Let  me  help  you  up,  Leonard.  You  have 
the  wrong  chair  again.  It  is  difficult  to  be  properly 
indignant  in  that  one.  (He  helps  liim  into  a  sitting 
position.)  That's  better.  You  were  saying 

Leonard:  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  had  the 
audacity  to  bribe  my  chauffeur? 

Latimer:  No,  no,  Leonard.  What  I  mean  is  that 
you  had  the  foolhardiness  to  bribe  my  friend  Saunders 
to  be  your  chauffeur. 

Leonard:    Upon  my  word 

Anne:    Who  is  Saunders? 

Latimer:  Saunders?  He's  Joseph's  brother.  Joseph 
was  the  gentleman  in  orange.  I  don't  know  if  you 
noticed  him.  He  helped  you  to  fish. 

Leonard:  (Out  of  the  cliair  at  last.)  How  dare 
you  interfere  in  my  concerns  in  this  way,  sir! 

Anne:  Before  you  explain  how  you  dare,  Mr.  Lati- 
men,  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  are  so  interested 
in  us.  Who  are  you  ? 

Latimer:  No  more  than  Mr.  Latimer.  It  is  a  purely 
impersonal  interest  which  I  take — and  I  take  it  just 
because  you  are  going  the  Dover  Road,  my  dear,  an -I 
it  is  a  dangerous  road  for  a  young  girl  to  travel. 

Anne:  (Very  cool,  very  proud.}  I  don't  think  I 
asked  you  to  be  interested  in  me. 

Latimer:  Nobody  does,  my  dear.  But  I  am.  Very 
interested.  In  all  my  fellow  travellers.  It  is  my  hobby. 


The  Dover  Road  23 

Leonard:  Anne!  (He  means,  ''Let's  get  out  of 
this."  He  makes  a  movement  to  the  front  door,} 

La-timer:     The  door  is  locked,  Leonard. 

Leonard:     (Bending  over  him  and  putting  his  face 
very  close  to  Latimer' s. )     Ah !     Then  I  will  give  you 
one  minute  in  which  to  open  it. 
(Dominic  has  come  in.) 

Lat inter:  Dominic,  his  lordship's  face  is  just  a  little 
too  close  to  mine.  Could  you — thank  you. 

(Leonard     has     started     back     on     noticing 

Dominic.) 
Coffee  ?    Excellent. 

(The  Footmen  come  round  with  coffee.) 
Anne:    No,  thank  you. 
Leonard:    No,  thanks.   (He  sits  on  another  chair.) 

Latimer:  No,  thank  you.  By  the  way,  Dominic, 
did  you  go  round  to  the  Hospital  this  afternoon? 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  The  young  gentleman  is  getting 
on  nicely.  He  was  able  to  take  a  little  bread-and-milk 
this  morning. 

Latimer:    Ah,  I'm  glad.     Nothing  solid  yet? 

Dominic:  No,  sir.  The  jaw  is  still  very  tender. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Latimer:  (To  Leonard.)  He  bumped  it  against  my 
knuckles  last  week.  An  impetuous  young  fellow.  He 
was  running  away  with — dear  me,  I  forget  her  name — 
I  always  forget  names.  I  think  he  called  her  Pussy. 
She  had  several  children.  (Unconsciously  he  has  shot 
his  cut}',  and  sees  suddenly  the  note  he  has  made.) 
What's  this?  "Dominic.  Apt  appearance  of."  Ah, 
yes.  (He  turns  to  Anne.)  It's  very  simple.  A  little 
fad  of  mine.  There  are  bells  everywhere  in  this  room ; 


24  The  Dover  Road 

in  every  chair,  on  the  table,  in  the  floor,  wherever  I  am. 
I  can  press  a  bell  for  Dominic.  He  is  always  close  at 
hand  on  reception-evenings.  Yes. 

Anne:  That  was  a  little  display  of  force  which  you 
were  giving  us  just  now? 

Latimer:  (Apologetically.)  Yes.  I  thought  it  bet- 
ter. Leonard  is  so  impetuous.  Joseph  and  Jacob  were 
both  amateur  champions  in  their  day.  Dominic  is  a 
very  heavy  fall-er.  He  never  has  to  fall  on  a  man 
twice.  If  all  this  is  quite  understood  at  the  beginning, 
it  makes  it  so  much  easier. 

Anne:  (Getting  up.)  Mr.  Latimer,  I  assure  you 
that  this  is  not  a  sudden  freak  of  fancy,  and  that  I 
know  my  own  mind.  I  ask  you,  as  a  gentleman,  to 
open  the  door. 

Latimer:  (Shaking  his  head.)  I  am  afraid  it  is 
impossible,  Anne. 

(She  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  sits  down.) 

Leonard:  (Calm  for  the  moment.)  So  we  are  kept 
here  by  force? 

Latimer:  Need  we  insist  upon  it?  Let  us  rather 
say  that  you  have  postponed  your  visit  to  France  in 
order  to  spend  a  few  days  with  a  friend. 

Leonard:    I  prefer  to  say  force. 

Latimer:  (With  a  bow.)  I  do  not  dictate  your 
words  to  you.  Your  movements  for  the  moment,  yes. 
So  let  us  say  "force." 

Leonard:    We  are  prisoners  in  fact? 
Latimer:    Within  the  limits  of  my  house. 

Leonard:  And  if  my — my  wife  chooses  to  walk  out 
of  your  front  door  tomorrow  morning,  your — your 
fellow-conspirators  would  lay  hands  on  her  and  stop 
her? 


The  Dover  Road  25 

Latimer:  My  dear  Leonard,  why  should  your — your 
wife  want  to  walk  out  of  the  front  door  tomorrow? 
What  would  she  want  to  do  in  the  garden  in  Novem- 
ber? Do  be  reasonable. 

Leonard:  Suppose  she  wished  to  walk  to  the  nearest 
police-station  ? 

Latimer:    (To  Anne.}    Do  you? 

Anne:     (With  a  smile.}     Could  I? 

Latimer:  If  you  stood  on  Leonard's  shoulders  you 
might  just  reach  the  top  of  the  wall.  .  .  .  Dominic 
tells  me  that  they  have  lost  the  key  of  the  gates.  Very 
careless  of  them. 

Leonard:    Well,  I'm — It's  monstrous! 

Anne:  Yes,  but  we  can't  keep  on  saying  that.  Here 
we  are  apparently,  and  here  we  have  to  stay.  But  I 
still  want  to  know  very  much  why  Mr.  Latimer  has  this 
great  desire  for  our  company. 

Leonard:  You  have  the  advantage  of  me  now,  sir, 
but  you  will  not  always  have  it.  The  time  will  come 
when  I  shall  demand  satisfaction  for  this  insult. 

Latimer:  (With  an  air — rising  and  bowing.}  My 
lord!  Letters  addressed  to  me  at  the  Charing  Cross 
Post  Office  will  always  be  forwarded. 

Leonard:  (Slightly  upset.}  This  gross  insult  to 
myself  and — er — my  wife. 

Latimer:    No,  no,  not  your  wife. 

Leonard:    How  dare  you! 

Latimer:  (In  alarm.)  Surely  I  haven't  made  a  mis- 
take. (To  Anne.}  You  and  he  are  running  away 
together,  aren't  you  ? 

Leonard:    (A  step  nearer.}    Look  here,  sir 

Anne:  Oh,  Leonard,  what's  the  good?  We  aren't 
ashamed  of  it,  are  we?  Yes,  Mr.  Latimer,  we  are 
running  away  together. 


26  The  Dover  Road 

Latimcr:  Of  course!  Why  not?  Leonard,  you 
aren't  ashamed  of  it,  are  you? 

Leonard:  I  object  to  this  interference  in  my  private 
affairs  by  a 

Latim-er:  Yes,  yes,  but  you've  said  all  that.  It's 
interfering  of  me,  damnably  interfering.  But  I  am 
doing  it  because  I  want  you  both  to  be  happy. 

Leonard:    I  can  look  after  my  own  happiness. 

Latimer:    And  this  lady's? 

Leonard:    She  is  good  enough  to  believe  it. 

Anne:  I  am  not  a  child.  Do  you  think  I  haven't 
thought?  The  scandal,  the  good  name  I  am  going  to 
lose,  the  position  of  that  other  woman,  I  have  thought 
of  all  these  things. 

Latimer:  There  is  one  thing  of  which  you  haven't 
thought,  Anne. 

Anne:  I  am  afraid  you  are  old-fashioned.  You  are 
going  to  talk  to  me  of  morality. 

Latimer:     (Smiling.)     Oh,  no,  I  wasn't. 

Anne:  (Not  heeding  him.)  Living  alone  here,  a 
bachelor,  within  these  high  walls  which  keep  the  world 
out,  you  believe  what  the  fairy-books  tell  us,  that  once 
two  people  are  married  they  live  happy  ever  after. 

Latimer:    Oh,  no,  I  don't. 

Anne:  I  am  the  wicked  woman,  coming  between  the 
happy  husband  and  wife,  breaking  up  the  happy  home. 
Is  that  it,  Mr.  Latimer? 

Leonard:  Rubbish!  The  happy  home!  Why,  this 
is  my  first  real  chance  of  happiness. 

Latimer:  His  first  real  chance  of  happiness!  As  he 
said  when  he  proposed  to  Eustasia. 

Leonard:     (Upset.)     What's  that? 


The  Dover  Road  27 

Latimer:  (To  Anne.)  May  I  ask  you  some  ques- 
tions now  ? 

Anne:    Yes? 

Latimer:     Eustasia  will  divorce  him? 

Leonard:     We  shall  not  defend  the  suit. 

Latimer:    And  then  you  will  marry  Anne? 

Leonard:    A.nother  insult.     I  shall  not  forget  it. 

Latimer:  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  simply  wanted  an 
answer. 

shme:    He  will  marry  me. 

Latimer:  I  see.  And  then,  as  the  fairy-books  tell 
us,  you  will  live  happy  ever  after? 

(Anne  is  silent.) 
Leonard:    I  need  hardly  say  that  I  shall  do  my  best 

Latimer:  (To  Anne.)  And  then,  as  the  fairy-books 
tell  us,  you  will  live  happy  ever  after? 

(Anne  is  silent.) 

I  live  within  my  high  walls  which  keep  the  world  out ; 
I  am  old-fashioned,  Anne.  You  are  modern,  you 
know  the  world.  You  don't  believe  the  fairy-books, 
and  yet — you  are  going  to  live  happy  ever  after  ? 

Leonard:    I  don't  see  what  you're  driving  at. 
Latimer:    Anne  does. 

Anne:  (Raising  her  eyes  to  his.)  I  take  the  risk, 
Air.  Latimer. 

Latimer:  But  a  big  risk  .  .  .  Oh,  believe  me  I  am 
not  so  much  out  of  the  world  as  you  think.  Should  I 
have  known  all  about  you,  should  I  have  brought  you 
here,  if  I  were?  I  know  the  world;  I  know  the  risks 
of  marriage.  Marriage  is  an  art — well,  it's  a  profes- 
sion in  itself.  (Sharply.)  And  what  are  you  doing? 


28  The  Dover  Road 

Marrying  a  man  whose  only  qualification  for  the  pro- 
fession is  that  he  has  tried  it  once,  and  made  a  damned 
hash  of  it. 

Leonard:    Well,  really,  sir! 

Latimer:    Isn't  it  true? 

Leonard:  Well — er — I  admit  my  marriage  has  not 
been  a  happy  one,  but  I  venture  to  say — well,  I  don't 
wish  to  say  anything  against  Eustasia 

Latimer:  Goon.  Life  is  too  short  for  us  to  be  gen- 
tlemen all  the  time. 

Leonard:  (Explosively.)  Well  then,  I  say  that 
not  even  St.  Michael  and  all  his  angels  could  have  made 
a  success  of  it.  I  mean,  not  even  St.  Michael. 

Latimer:    Yet  you  chose  her. 

Leonard:    Er — well —  (But  he  has  nothing  to  say.) 

Latimer:  (After  a  pause.)  Miss  Anne,  I  am  not 
being  moral.  You  see,  I  am  a  very  rich  man,  and  we 
know  on  good  authority  that  it  is  difficult  for  a  very 
rich  man  to  be  a  very  good  man.  But  being  a  very  rich 
man  I  try  to  spend  my  money  so  that  it  makes  somebody 
else  happy  besides  myself.  It's  the  only  happy  way  of 
spending  money,  isn't  it?  And  it's  my  hobby  to  prevent 
people — to  try  if  I  can  prevent  people — making  un- 
happy marriages  .  .  .  It's  wonderful  what  power 
money  gives  you.  Nobody  realises  it,  because  nobody 
ever  spends  it  save  in  the  obvious  ways  .  .  .  You  may 
say  that  I  should  have  prevented  Leonard  from  marry- 
ing Eustasia  in  the  first  place.  I  have  done  that 
sometimes.  I  have  asked  two  young  people  here — oh, 
properly  chaperoned — and  guests,  not  prisoners  as  you 
are — two  young  people  who  thought  that  they  were  in 
love,  and  I  have  tried  to  show  each  to  the  other  in  the 
most  unromantic  light.  I  have  let  the  girl  see  her  lover 
when  he  was  angry,  when  he  was  sulky,  when  he  had 


The  Dover  Road  29 

lost  his  sense  of  humour.  I  have  shown  the  girl  to  the 
man  when  she  had  forgotten  her  dignity,  when  she 
was  greedy,  ill-tempered  .  .  .  Sometimes  the  engage- 
ment has  been  broken  off.  Sometimes  they  have  mar- 
ried and — lived  happy  ever  after But  mostly 

it  is  my  hobby  to  concentrate  on  those  second  marriages 
into  which  people  plunge — with  no  parents  now  to 
restrain  them — so  much  more  hastily  even  than  they 
plunge  into  their  first  adventure.  Yet  how  much  more 
carefully  they  should  be  considered,  seeing  that  one  at 
least  of  the  parties  has  already  proved  his  utter  igno- 
rance of  the  art  of  marriage  .  .  .  And  so,  my  dear 
friends,  when  I  hear — and  a  rich  man  has  many  means 
of  hearing — when  I  hear  that  two  people  are  taking 
the  Dover  Road,  as  you  were  taking  it  tonight,  I  ven- 
ture to  stop  them,  and  say,  in  the  words  of  the  fairy- 
book,  "Are  you  sure  you  are  going  to  live  happy  ever 
after?" 

Leonard:  Your  intentions  may  be  good,  but  I  can 
only  repeat  that  your  interference  is  utterly  unwar- 
ranted, and  you  are  entirely  mistaken  as  to  the  power 
and  authority  which  your  money  gives  you. 

Latimer:  Authority,  none.  But  power?  (He 
laughs.)  Why  my  dear  Leonard,  if  I  offered  you  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  to  go  back  to  your  wife  to- 
night this  lady  would  never  see  you  again. 

Leonard:  Well,  of  all  the  damnable  things  to 
say 

Latimer:  How  damnable  the  truth  is!  Think  it 
over  tonight,  Leonard.  You  are  a  poor  man  for  your 
position — think  of  all  the  things  you  could  do  with  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  Turn  it  over  in  your  mind 
—and  then  over  and  over  again.  A  hundred  thousand 
pounds. 

(For  a  moment  it  seems  as  if  Leonard  is  begin- 
ning to  turn  it,  but  Anne  interrupts.) 


3O  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:  (Scornfully.}  Is  this  part  of  the  treatment ° 
Am  I  being  shown  my  lover  when  he  is  mercenary  ? 

Latimer:  (With  a  laugh.}  Oh  no!  If  that  were 
part  of  my  treatment,  there  would  be  no  marriages  at 
all.  Oh  no,  it  isn't  a  genuine  offer.  (To  Leonard.} 
It's  off,  Leonard.  You  needn't  think  it  out  any  more. 

(Leonard  wakes  up  suddenly,  a  poor  man.} 
Besides,  you  misunderstand  me.     I  don't  want  to  sep- 
arate you  by  force — I  have  no  right  to. 

Anne:    But  how  modest  suddenly ! 

Latimer:  (With  a  bow  and  a  smile.}  Madam,  I 
admire  your  spirit. 

Anne:  Leonard,  I  am  receiving  the  attentions  of  an- 
other man.  Beware  of  jealousy  .  .  .  All  part  of  the 
treatment,  Mr.  Latimer? 

Latimer:  You're  splendid.  (Seriously.}  But  I 
meant  what  I  said  just  now.  I  am  not  preventing  you 
from  going  the  Dover  Road,  I  am  only  asking  you  to 
wait  a  few  days  and  see  how  you  get  on.  It  may  be 
that  you  two  are  the  perfect  soul-mates ;  that  your  union 
has  already  been  decreed  in  Heaven  and  will  be  watched 
over  by  the  angels.  If  so,  nobody  will  rejoice  in  your 
happiness  more  than  I.  I  shall  not  say,  "You  have  no 
right  to  be  happy  together.  Leonard  must  remain 
with  his  lawfully-wedded  Eustasia."  Believe  me,  I  do 
not  waste  my  money,  my  time,  my  breath  in  upholding 
the  sanctity  of  an  unhappy  marriage.  I  was  brought 
up  in  the  sanctity  of  an  unhappy  marriage;  even  as  a 
child  I  knew  all  about  it.  (Less  seriously.}  But  oh, 
my  dear  Anne,  let  us  have  a  little  common-sense  before 
we  adventure  marriage  with  a  man  who  is  always 
making  a  mess  of  it.  We  know  what  Leonard  is — how 
perfectly  hopeless  as  a  husband. 

Anne:    I  don't  think  that  is  quite  fair. 


The  Dover  Road  31 

Latimer:  Well  as  far  as  we  can  tell,  you've  never 
made  a  happy  marriage  yet,  have  you,  Leonard? 

Leonard:  (Sulkily.)  I  don't  want  to  say  anything 
against  Eustasia 

Latimer:  Good  God,  man,  aren't  you  shouting  it 
all  the  time?  Why  else  are  you  here?  But  don't  try 
to  pretend  that  it's  all  Eustasia's  fault. 

Leonard:    (Doubtfully.)    Well 

Latimer:  Or  that  it  will  be  all  Anne's  fault  next 
year. 

Leonard:    What  do  you  mean,  next  year? 

Latimer:  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  have  said 
the  year  after  next. 

(  There  is  a  little  silence. ) 

Anne:  (Getting  up.)  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed. 
How  long  do  you  want  us  to  wait  ? 

Latimer:  Can  you  spare  a  week?  You  with  so 
many  years  in  front  of  you. 

Anne:  I  have  a  father.  I  left  him  a  note  to  say 
what  I  was  doing.  We  don't  see  much  of  each  other, 
but  I  thought  it  polite.  Does  that  interfere  with  your 
plans  at  all  ? 

Latimer:  (Smiling.)  Not  at  all.  There  was  a  little 
mistake  about  the  delivery  of  that  note.  Your  father 
is  under  the  impression  that  you  are  staying  with 
friends — in  Kent  ...  A  great  power,  money. 

Anne:  I  congratulate  you  on  the  perfection  of  your 
methods.  Good-night. 

(Dominic  is  in  the  room.) 
Latimer:     Her  ladyship  will  retire. 
Dominic:    Yes,  sir.  (He  goes  out.) 


32  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:     Good-night,  Miss  Anne. 

Anne:  (Holding  out  her  hand  suddenly.)  Without 
prejudice. 

Latimer:  (Bending  oi'cr  it  gallantly.')  Ah,  but  you 
are  prejudicing  me  entirely. 

(A  maid  comes  in.) 
Maid:     This  way,  my  lady. 

(She  leads  the  way  to  a  door  on  the  right,  and 
Anne  follows  her.) 

Latimer:  (Pleasantly,  to  Leonard.)  And  did  you 
leave  a  note  for  your  father,  Leonard  ? 

Leonard:  You  ought  to  know.  You  appear  to 
have  your  conspirators  everywhere.  Saunders  —  and 
I  suppose  Anne's  maid  —  and  God  knows  who  else. 

Latimer:  Money,  Leonard,  money.  A  pity  you 
refused  that  hundred  thousand  pounds.  You  could 
have  bribed  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  curse  me 
.  .  .  Well,  a  week  here  won't  do  either  of  you  any 
harm.  Have  a  whiskey  and  soda? 

Leonard:  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  ought  to  drink 
in  your  house. 

Latimer:    You  will  be  thirsty  before  you  go. 
Leonard:     (Hesitating.)     Well  - 


(A  Footman  appears  with  the 
Latimer:    That's  right.     Help  yourself,  won't  you? 

Leonard:  (Helping  himself.)  Please  understand 
that  I  do  this,  as  I  do  everything  else  in  your  house, 
under  protest. 

Latimer:  (Shooting  his  cuff  and  taking  out  his 
pencil.)  Your  protest  is  noted. 


The  Dover  Road  33 

Leonard:  (Returning  to  the  too  comfortable  chair.) 
As  I  have  already  said,  your  conduct  is  perfectly  out- 
rageous. (He  sinks  into  its  depths.') 

Latimer:  And  as  I  have  already  said,  you  can't  do 
moral  indignation  from  that  chair.  Remember  what 
happened  to  you  last  time. 

Leonard:    Perfectly  outrageous.     (He  drinks.) 
Latimer:    Have  another  cigar? 

Leonard:  I  shall  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  have  drunk 
this.  (He  drinks.) 

Latimer:  You  wouldn't  care  for  a  game  of  billiards 
first? 

Leonard:    I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  billiards. 

Latimer:  By  the  way,  we  have  another  runaway 
couple  here.  But  their  week  of  probation  is  just  over. 
They  expect  to  leave  tomorrow. 

Leonard:    I  am  not  interested  in  your  earlier  crimes. 

Latimer:  I  think  you  would  be  interested  in  this 
couple,  Leonard. 

Leonard:    I  assure  you  I  am  not. 

Latimer:  Ah!  (Picking  up  a  review  and  settling 
himself.)  Very  good  article  this  month  by  Sidney 
Webb.  You  ought  to  read  it. 

Leonard:    I  am  not  interested  in  Sidney  Webb. 
Latimer:    Breakfast  is  at  ten  o'clock.    In  here. 

Leonard:  (Struggling  out  of  his  chair.)  I  shall 
eat  it  under  protest. 

Latimer:    You're  off?    Then  I'll  say  good-night. 

(The  two  Footmen,  Joseph  and  Jacob,   have 
come  in.) 


34  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:     (Stiffly.)     Good-night. 

(He  walks  up  to  the  door  on  the  right.  Jacob 
is  in  front  of  it.  Leonard  is  pulled  up  at 
sight  of  him.  Joseph  indicates  the  door  on 
the  left.) 

Joseph:     This  way,  my  lord. 

Leonard:     (Looking  from  one  to  the  other.)     Er — 
er — thank  you. 

(He  goes  out. 

Mr.  Latimer  is  alone  with  Sidney  Webb.) 


ACT  II. 

//  is  next  morning.  Enstasia,  Leonard's  wife,  (who 
should  be  sitting  patiently  at  home  wondering 
when  he  will  return)  is  having  breakfast  with  a 
long-legged  attractive  young  man  called  Nicholas. 
She  is  what  people  who  talk  like  that  call  a  "nice 
little  thing''  near  enough  to  thirty  to  begin  to  wish 
it  were  twenty.  At  present  she  is  making  a  good 
deal  of  fuss  over  this  dear  boy  Nicholas.  Break- 
fast is  practically  over.  Nicholas  in  fact,  is  wip- 
ing his  mouth. 

Eustasia:     Finished,  darling? 

Nicholas:    Yes,  thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:    A  little  more  toast? 

Nicholas:    No,  thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:  Just  a  little  tiny  teen-weeny  bit,  if  his 
Eustasia  butters  it  for  him? 

Nicholas:     No,  thank  you.     I've  really  finished. 

Eustasia:    Another  cup  of  coffee? 

Nicholas:    (With  a  sigh.)   No,  thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:  Just  a  little  bit  of  a  cup  if  his  Eustasia 
pours  it  out  for  her  own  Nicholas,  and  puts  the  sugar 
in  with  her  own  ickle  fingers? 

Nicholas:     No  more  coffee,  thank  you. 

Eustasia:  Then  he  shall  sit  in  a  more  comfy  chair 
while  he  smokes  his  nasty  horrid  pipe,  which  he  loves 
so  much  better  than  his  Eustasia. 

(He  gets  up  without  saying  anything.) 

He  doesn't  really  love  it  better? 

35 


36  The  Dover  Road 

Nicholas:  (Laughing  uneasily.}  Of  course  he 
doesn't. 

Eustasia:    Kiss  her  to  show  that  he  doesn't. 
Nicholas:    You  baby.     (He  kisses  her  hand.) 
Eustasia:    And  now  give  me  your  pipe. 

(He  gives  it  to  her  reluctantly. 

She  kisses  it  and  gives  it  back  to  him. ) 

There !  And  she  doesn't  really  think  it's  a  nasty  horrid 
pipe,  and  she's  ever  so  sorry  she  said  so  ...  Oh! 
(She  sees  a  dish  of  apples  suddenly.) 

Nicholas:    What  is  it? 

Eustasia:    Nicholas  never  had  an  apple ! 

Nicholas:    Oh  no,  thanks,  I  don't  want  one. 

Eustasia:  Oh,  but  he  must  have  an  apple!  It's  so 
good  for  him.  An  apple  a  day  keeps  the  doctor  away. 
You  must  keep  the  doctor  away,  darling,  else  poor 
Eustasia  will  be  miserable. 

Nicholas:  (With  an  effort.)  I've  finished  my 
breakfast. 

Eustasia:    Not  even  if  his  Eustasia  peels  it  for  him  ? 

Nicholas:  No,  thank  you.  I  assure  you  that  I  have 
had  all  I  want. 

Eustasia:    Sure? 

Nicholas:  Quite  sure,  thank  you.  Where  are  you 
going  to  sit? 

Eustasia:  (Indicating  the  sofa.)  Nicholas  sit  there 
and  Eustasia  sit  next  to  him. 

Nicholas:     (Without  much  enthusiasm.)  Right. 
(They  sit  down.) 

Eustasia:    Shall  Eustasia  fill  his  pipe  for  him? 


The  Dover  Road  37 

Nicholas:  No,  thank  you.  I  think  I  can  do  it  my- 
self. (He  fills  it.) 

(They  are  silent  for  a  little  and  at  last  he  speaks 

uncomfortably.) 
Er — Eustasia. 

Eustasia:    Yes,  darling. 

Nicholas:     We've  been  here  a  week. 

Eustasia:  Yes,  darling.  A  wonderful,  wonderful 
week.  And  now  today  we  leave  this  dear  house  where 
we  have  been  so  happy  together,  and  go  out  into  the 
world  together 

Nicholas:  (W ho  has  not  been  listening  to  her.) 
A  week.  Except  for  the  first  day,  we  have  had  all  our 
meals  alone  together. 

Eustasia:     (Sentimentally.)     Alone,   Nicholas. 

Nicholas:  Four  meals  a  day — that's  twenty- four 
meals. 

Eustasia:     Twenty-four! 

Nicholas:  And  at  every  one  of  those  meals  you 
have  asked  me  at  least  four  times  to  have  something 
more  when  I  had  already  said  that  I  didn't  want  any- 
thing more ;  or,  in  other  words,  you  have  forced  me 
to  say  "No,  thank  you,  Eustasia,"  ninety-six  times 
when  there  was  absolutely  no  need  for  it. 

Eustasia:     (Hurt.)     Nicholas! 

Nicholas:  (Inexorably.)  We  are  both  young.  lam 
twenty-six,  you  are 

Eustasia :     ( Hopefully. )     Twenty-five. 

Nicholas:  (Looking  at  her  quickly  and  then  away 
again.)  You  are  twenty-five.  If  all  goes  well,  we  may 
look  to  have  fifty  years  more  together.  Say  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  weeks.  Multiply  that  by  a  hundred 
and  we  see  that  in  the  course  of  our  joint  lives,  you 


38  The  Dover  Road 

will,  at  the  present  rate,  force  me  to  say  "No,  thank 
you,  Eustasia"  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  times 
more  than  is  necessary. 

(He  relights  his  pipe.) 

Eustasia:  (Pathetically.)  Nicholas!  (She  applies 
her  handkerchief.) 

Nicholas:  I  wondered  if  we  couldn't  come  to  some 
arrangement  about  it.  That's  all. 

Eustasia:  You're  cruel!  Cruel!  (She  sobs 
pitecmsly. ) 

Nicholas:  (Doggedly.)  I  just  wondered  if  we 
couldn't  come  to  some  arrangement. 

Eustasia:  (Completely  overcome.)  Oh!  Oh! 
Nicholas!  My  darling! 

(Nicholas,  his  hands  clenched,  looks  grimly  in 
front  of  him.  He  winces  now  and  then  at 
her  sobs.  He  tries  desperately  hard  not  to 
give  way,  but  in  the  end  they  are  too  much 
for  him.) 

Nicholas:  (Putting  his  arms  round  her.)  Darling! 
Don't. 

(She  goes  on  sobbing.) 

There!  There!  I'm  sorry.  Nicholas  is  sorry.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  said  it.  Forgive  me,  darling. 

Eustasia:  (Between  so'bs.)  It's  only  because  I  love 
you  so  much,  and  w-want  you  to  be  well.  And  you 
m-must  eat. 

Nicholas:  Yes,  yes,  Eustasia,  I  know.  It  is  dear 
of  you. 

Eustasia:  Ask  any  d-doctor.  He  would  say  yo'i 
m-must  eat. 

Nicholas:  Yes,  darling. 

Eustasia:  You  m-must  eat. 


The  Dover  Road  39 

Nicholas:    (Resignedly.)     Yes,  darling. 

Eustasia :  ( Sitting  up  and  wiping  her  eyes. )  What's 
a  wife  for,  if  it  isn't  to  look  after  her  husband  when 
he's  ill,  and  to  see  that  he  eats? 

Nicholas:  All  right,  dear,  we  won't  say  anything 
more  about  it. 

Eustasia:  And  when  you  had  that  horrid  cold  and 
were  so  ill,  the  first  day  after  we  came  here,  I  did  look 
after  you,  didn't  I,  Nicholas,  and  take  care  of  you  and 
make  you  well  again? 

Xicholas:  You  did,  dear.  Don't  think  I  am  not 
grateful.  You  were  very  kind.  (Wincing  at  the 
recollection.)  Too  kind. 

Eustasia:  Not  too  kind,  darling.  I  love  looking 
after  you,  and  doing  things  for  you,  and  taking  care 
of  you,  and  cosseting  you.  (Thoughtfully  to  herself.) 
Leonard  was  never  ill. 

Nicholas :     Leonard  ? 

Eustasia:     My  husband. 

Nicholas:  Oh!  ...  I'd  never  thought  of  him  as 
Leonard.  I  prefer  not  to  think  about  him.  I've  never 
seen  him,  and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  him. 

Eustasia:    No,  darling.    7  don't  want  to  either. 

Nicholas:  We've  taken  the  plunge  and — (Bravely) 
and  we're  not  going  back  on  it. 

Eustasia:     (Surprised.)     Darling! 

Xicholas:  As  a  man  of  honour  I — Besides  you  can't 
go  back  now — I  mean  I  took  you  away,  and — Well 
here  we  are.  (With  determination.)  Here  we  are. 

Eustasia:     Darling,  you  aren't  regretting? 
Xicholas:     (Hastily.)     No,  no! 

(She  takes  out  her  handkerchief  ominously.) 


4O  The  Dover  Road 

Xo,  no,  no! 

(She  begins  to  sob.) 

No!  No!  (He  is  almost  shouting.}  Eustasia,  listen ! 
I  love  you!  I'm  not  regretting!  I've  never  been  so 
happy ! 

(She  is  sobbing  tumultnously.) 

So  happy,  Eustasia !  I  have  never  never  been  so  happy ! 
Can't  you  hear? 

Eustasia:  (Throiving  herself  into  his  arms.)  Dar- 
ling! 

Nicholas:    There,  there! 

Eustasia:  (Drying  her  eyes.)  Oh,  Nicholas,  you 
frightened  me  so!  Just  for  a  moment  I  was  afraid 
you  were  regretting. 

Nicholas:     No,  no! 

Eustasia:    How  right  Mr.  Latimer  was! 
Nicholas:     (With  conviction.}     He  was  indeed. 
Eustasia:    How  little  we  really  knew  of  each  other 
when  you  asked  me  to  come  away  with  you! 

Nicholas:    How  little ! 

Eustasia:  But  this  week  has  shown  us  to  each  other 
as  we  really  are. 

Nicholas:    It  has. 

Eustasia:  And  now  I  feel  absolutely  safe.  We  are 
ready  to  face  the  world  together,  Nicholas.  (She 
sighs  and  leans  back  happily  in  his  arms.) 

Nicholas:  Ready  to  face  the  world  together.  (He 
has  his  pipe  in  his  right  hand,  which  is  round  her  waist. 
Her  eyes  are  closed,  her  left  hand,  encircling  his  neck, 
holds  his  left  hand.  He  tries  to  bend  his  head  doum 
so  as  to  get  hold  of  his  pipe  with  his  teeth.  Several 
times  he  tries  and  just  misses  it.  Each  time  he  pulls 


The  Dover  Road  41 

her  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  she  sighs  happily.  At 
last  he  gets  hold  of  it.  He  leans  back  with  a  gasp  of 
relief. ) 

Eustasia :  ( Still  with  her  eyes  closed. )  What  is  it, 
darling? 

Nicholas:  Nothing  Eustasia,  nothing.  Just  hap- 
piness. 

(Mr.  Latimcr  comes  in.) 

Latimer:    Good  morning,  my  friends,  good  morning. 
(They  move  apart  and  Nicholas  jumps  up.) 

Nicholas:    Oh,  good  morning. 

Eustasia:    Good  morning. 

Latimer:  So  you  are  leaving  me  this  morning  and 
going  on  your  way  ? 

Nicholas:     (Without  enthusiasm.}     Yes. 

Eustasia>:  But  we  shall  never  forget  this  week,  dear 
Mr.  Latimer. 

Latim-er:  You  have  forgiven  me  for  asking  you  to 
wait  a  little  so  as  to  make  sure? 

Eustasia:  Oh,  but  you  were  so  right !  I  was  just 
saying  so  to  Nicholas.  Wasn't  I,  Nicholas  ? 

Nicholas:  Yes.  About  a  minute  ago.  About  two 
minutes  ago. 

Latimer:    And  so  now  you  are  sure  of  yourselves? 
Eustasia:     Oh,  so  sure,  so  very  sure.     Aren't  we, 
Nicholas. 
Nicholas:     Absolutely  sure. 

Latimer:  That's  right.  (Looking  at  his  watch.) 
Well,  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  but  if  you  have  any 
little  things  to  do,  the  car  will  be  here  in  half  an 
hour,  and 

Eustasia:  Half  an  hour?  Oh,  I  must  fly.  (She 
begins. ) 


42  The  Dover  Road 

Nicholas:     (Not  moving.)     Yes,  we  must  fly. 

Latimer:  (Going  to  the  door  with  Eusfasick)  By 
the  way  you  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  I  had  two 
other  visitors  last  night. 

Eustasia:  (Stopping  excitedly.)  Mr.  Latimer! 
You  don't  mean  another — couple? 

Latimer:    Yes,  another  romantic  couple. 

Eustasia:  Oh,  if  I  could  but  see  them  before  we  go ! 
Just  for  a  moment!  Just  to  reconcile  them  to  this 
week  of  probation!  To  tell  them  what  a  wonderful 
week  it  can  be! 

Latimer:    You  shall.     I  promise  you  that  you  shall. 
Eustasia:     Oh,  thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Latimer! 

(He  goes  to  the  door  ivith  her.  As  he  conies 
back,  Nicholas  is  coming  slowly  towards 
him. ) 

Nicholas:    I  say. 
Latimer:    Yes. 

Nicholas:  (Thoughtfully.)  I  say,  what  would  you 
— I  mean — supposing — Because  you  see — I  mean,  it 
isn't  as  if — Of  course,  n-ow — (He  looks  at  his  watch 
and  finishes  up  sadly. )  Half  an  hour.  Well,  I  suppose 
I  must  be  getting  ready.  (He  goes  towards  the  door.) 

Latimer:  (As  he  gets  there.)     Er — Nicholas. 

Nicholas:  Yes? 

Latimer:  Just  a  moment. 

Nicholas:     (Coming  back  to  him.)     Yes? 

(Latimer  takes  him  by  the  arm,  and  looks 
round  the  room  to  see  that  they  are  alone.) 

Latimer:    (In  a  loud  whisper.)    Cheer  up! 


The  Dover  Road  43 

Nicholas:     (Excitedly.)     What! 

(Latimcr  has  let  go  of  his  arm  and  moved  away, 
humming  casually  to  himself.  The  light  dies 
out  of  Xicholas'  eyes  and  he  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders despairingly. ) 

Nicholas:  (Without  any  hope.)  Well,  I'll  go  and 
get  ready. 

(He  goes  out. 

Dominic  comes  in  and  begms  to  rearrange  the 

breakfast  table.) 

Latimer:    Ah,  good  morning,  Dominic. 
Dominic:     Good  morning,  sir.     A  nicish  morning 
it  seems  to  be,  sir. 

Latimcr:  A  very  nicish  morning.  I  have  great 
hopes  of  the  world  today. 

Dominic:    I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  sir. 
Latimcr:    We  must  all  do  what  we  can,  Dominic. 
Dominic:    That's  the  only  way,  isn't  it,  sir? 
Latimcr:    Great  hopes,  great  hopes. 
Dominic.     (Handing  him  "The  Times")     The  pa- 
per, sir. 

Latimer:     Thank   you.      (He   looks  at   the  front 
page.)      Anyone   married   this   morning?     Dear   me, 
quite  a  lot.     One,  two,  three,   four  .  .  .  ten.     Ten! 
Twenty  happy  people,  Dominic! 
Dominic:    Let  us  hope  so,  sir. 

Latimer:     Let  us  hope  so  ...  By  the  way,  how 
was  his  lordship  this  morning? 
Dominic:    A  little  depressed,  sir. 
Latimer:     Ah! 

Dominic:  There  seems  to  have  been  some  misun- 
derstanding about  his  luggage.  A  little  carelessness 
on  the  part  of  somebody,  I  imagine,  sir. 


44  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:    Dear  me!    Didn't  it  come  with  him? 

Dominic:     I'm  afraid  not,  sir. 

Latimer:  Tut,  tut,  how  careless  of  somebody. 
Can't  we  lend  him  anything? 

Dominic:  Joseph  offered  to  lend  him  a  comb,  sir — 
his  own  comb — a  birthday  present  last  year,  Joseph 
tells  me.  His  lordship  decided  not  to  avail  himself 
of  the  offer. 

Latimer:  Very  generous  of  Joseph,  seeing  that  it 
was  a  birthday  present. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  Unfortunately  Joseph  had  come 
down  to  the  last  blade  of  his  safety  razor  this  morn- 
ing. His  lordship  is  rather  upset  about  the  whole  busi- 
ness, sir. 

Latimer:  Well,  well,  I  daresay  a  little  breakfast 
will  do  him  good. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  Are  you  ready  for  breakfast 
now,  sir? 

(Anne  comes  in.} 

Latimer:  (Getting  up  and  going  down  to  her.} 
Good  morning,  Anne.  May  I  hope  that  you  slept  well ! 

Anne:    Very  well,  thank  you. 

Latimer:    I  am  so  glad  .  .  .  All  right,  Dominic. 

Dominic:    Thank  you,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.} 

Latimer:    You  are  ready  for  breakfast? 

Anne:    Quite  ready.     But  what  about  Leonard? 

Latimer:    Leonard? 

Anne:  I  made  sure  that  I  was  to  have  a  practice 
breakfast  with  Leonard  this  morning.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  a  few  things  to  say  up  in  my  room. 

Latimer:     (Smiling.}     Say  them  to  me  instead. 

'Anne:    They  are  very  wifely.     (She  sits  down.} 


The  Dover  Road  45 

Latimer:     But  think  what  good  practice. 

Anne:  Very  well.  (At  the  cups.}  Tea  or  coffee, 
darling  ? 

Latimer:  Oh,  no,  that  will  never  do.  You  know 
by  now  that  I  always  have  coffee — half  milk  and  three 
lumps  of  sugar. 

Anne.  Of  course,  how  silly  of  me.  (She  pours  out 
the  coffee.} 

Latimer:  (Taking  the  covers  off  the  dishes.}  Ome- 
lette— fish — kidney  and  bacon  ? 

Anne:    Now  you're  forgetting. 

Latimer:     (Putting  back  the  covers.}     No,  I'm  re- 
membering.    Toast  and  marmalade — isn't  that  right? 
Anne:     Quite  right,  dear. 

Latimer.  (To  himself.}  I  knew  she  would  like 
marmalade.  No  wonder  that  Leonard  ran  away  with 
her.  (He  puts  the  toast  and  marmalade  close  to  her.) 

Anne:    Your  coffee,  darling. 

Latimer:  Thank  you,  my  love  .  .  .  "My  love"  is 
very  connubial,  I  think. 

Anne:    Delightfully  so.    Do  go  on. 

Latimer:  Er — I  am  sorry  to  see  in  the  paper  this 
morning — which  I  glanced  at,  my  precious,  before  you 
came  down —  How  do  you  like  "My  precious"? 

Anne:  Wonderfully  life-like.  Are  you  sure  you 
haven't  been  married  before? 

Latimer:  Only  once.  Eustasia.  You  had  not  for- 
gotten Eustasia? 

Anne:  I  am  afraid  I  had.  In  fact,  I  had  forgotten 
for  the  moment  that  you  were  being  Leonard. 

Latimer:  (Bowing.}  Thank  you.  I  could  wish  no 
better  compliment. 


46  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:  (Laughing  in  spite  of  herself.)  Oh,  you're 
too  absurd. 

Latimer:  (In  Leonard's  manner.)  Of  course  I 
don't  wish  to  say  anything  against  Eustasia 

Anne:  My  dear  Leonard,  I  really  think  we  might 
leave  your  first  wife  out  of  it. 

Latimer:  Yes,  you  want  to  get  that  off  pat.  You'll 
have  to  say  that  a  good  deal,  I  expect.  Well,  to  re- 
sume. I  am  sorry  to  see  in  the  paper  this  morning 
that  Beelzebub,  upon  whom  I  laid  my  shirt  for  the 
2.30  race  at  Newmarket  yesterday — and  incidentally 
your  shirt  too,  darling — came  in  last,  some  five  min- 
utes after  the  others  had  finished  the  course 

Tut,  tut,  how  annoying! 

Anne:    Oh,  my  poor  darling! 

Latimer:  The  word  "poor"  is  well  chosen.  We  are 
ruined.  I  shall  have  to  work. 

Anne:    You  know  what  I  want  you  to  do,  Leonard. 

Latimer:    No,  I  have  forgotten. 

Anne:  (Seriously.)  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  taking  your  rightful  place  as  a  leader 
of  men,  making  great  speeches. 

Latimer:  My  dear  Anne!  I  may  be  a  peer,  but  I 
am  not  a  dashed  politician. 

Anne:     (Wistfully.)     I  wish  you  were,  Leonard. 

La-timer:  I  will  be  anything  you  like,  Anne.  (He 
leans  towards  her,  half-serious,  half -mocking. ) 

Anne:  (With  a  little  laugh.)  How  absurd  you  are! 
Some  more  coffee? 

Latimer:  (Passing  his  cup.)  To  which  I  answer, 
"A  little  more  milk.  Do  you  realise  that  this  goes 
on  for  fifty  years  ? 

Anne:    Well,  and  why  not? 


The  Dover  Road  47 

Latimer:  Fifty  years.  A  solemn  thought.  But  do 
not  let  it  mar  our  pleasure  in  the  meal  that  we  are 
having  together  now.  Let  us  continue  to  talk  gaily 
together.  Tell  me  of  any  interesting  dream  you  may 
have  had  last  night — any  little  adventure  that  befell 
you  in  the  bath — any  bright  thought  that  occurred 
to  you  as  you  were  dressing. 

Anne:  (Thoughtfully.}  I  had  a  very  odd  dream 
last  night. 

Latimer:    I  am  longing  to  hear  it,  my  love. 

Anne:  I  dreamt  that  you  and  I  were  running  away 
together,  and  that  we  lost  our  way  and  came  to  what 
we  thought  was  an  hotel.  But  it  was  not  an  hotel.  It 
was  a  very  mysterious  house,  kept  by  a  very  mys- 
terious man  called  Mr.  Latimer. 

Latimer:  How  very  odd.  Latimer?  Latimer?  No, 
I  don't  seem  to  have  heard  of  the  fellow. 

Anne:  He  told  us  that  we  were  his  prisoners.  That 
we  must  stay  in  his  house  a  week  before  we  went  on 
our  way  again.  That  all  the  doors  were  locked,  and 
there  were  high  walls  round  the  garden,  that  the  gates 
from  the  garden  were  locked,  so  that  we  could  not 
escape,  and  that  we  must  wait  a  week  together  in  his 
house  to  see  if  we  were  really  suited  to  each  other. 

Latimer:    My  dear,  what  an  extraordinary  dream! 
Anne:    It  was  only  a  dream,  wasn't  it? 

Latimer:  Of  course!  What  is  there  mysterious 
about  the  house?  What  is  there  mysterious  about  this 
— er — Mr.  Latimer?  And  as  for  anyone  being  kept 
prisoner — here — in  this  respectable  England — why! 

Anne:    It  is  absurd,  isn't  it? 
Latimer:     Quite  ridiculous. 


48  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:  (Getting  up.}  I  thought  it  was.  (She 
goes  to  the  front  door  and  opens  it.)  You  see,  I 
thought  it  was.  (She  steps  out  into  the  garden.)  You 
see,  the  gates  are  open  too!  (She  comes  back.)  What 
an  absurd  dream  to  have  had!  (She  sits  down 
again.) 

Latimer:  There's  no  accounting  for  dreams.  I  had 
an  absurd  one  too  last  night. 

Anne:    What  was  it? 

Latimer:  A  lonely  house.  Father  and  daughter  liv- 
ing together.  Father,  old,  selfish,  absorbed  in  his  work. 
Daughter  left  to  herself;  her  only  companion,  books; 
knowing  nothing  of  the  world.  A  man  comes  into 
her  life;  the  first.  He  makes  much  of  her.  It  is  a 
new  experience  for  the  daughter.  She  is  grateful  to 
him,  so  grateful,  so  very  proud  that  she  means  any- 
thing to  him.  He  tells  her  when  it  is  too  late  that  he 
is  married;  talks  of  an  impossible  wife;  tells  her  that 
she  is  his  real  mate.  Let  her  come  with  him  and  see 
something  of  the  world  which  she  has  never  known. 

She  comes Dear  me,  what  silly  things  one 

dreams ! 

Anne:  Absurd  things When  can  we  have 

the  car  ? 

Latimer:    The  car? 

Anne:    Leonard's  car. 

Latimer:    You  wish  to  continue  the  adventure? 

Anne:    Why  not? 

Latimer:  Dear,  dear!  What  a  pity!  (Looking  at 
his  "watch. )  In  twenty-five  minutes  ? 

Anne:    That  will  do  nicely,  thank  you. 

Latimer:  We  must  let  Leonard  have  a  little  break- 
fast first,  if  he  is  to  cross  the  Channel  today.  (He 
gets  up.)  In  twenty-five  minutes  then. 


The  Dover  Road  49 

Anne:  (Half  holding  out  her  hand.)  I  shall  see 
you  again? 

Latimer:  (Bending  and  kissing  it.)  If  only  to 
wish  you  God-speed. 

(She  looks  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  turns 
and  goes  out.  He  looks  after  her  for  a  little; 
then  picks  up  his  paper  and  settles  with  it  in 
an  arm-chair,  his  back  to  the  breakfast  table. 
Leonard  comes  in.  He  is  in  a  dirty,  rather 
disreputable,  once  white,  bath-gown.  His 
hair  is  unbrushed,  his  cheeks — the  cheeks  of 
a  dark  man — unsliavcd  and  blue.  He  has 
a  horrible  pair  of  bedroom  slippers  on  his 
feet,  above  which,  not  only  his  socks,  but 
almost  a  hint  of  pantaloons,  may  be  seen  on 
the  way  to  the  dressing-gown.  He  comes  in 
nervously,  and  is  greatly  relieved  to  find  that 
the  breakfast  table  is  empty.  He  does  not 
notice  Mr.  Latim-er.  On  his  way  to  the  table 
he  stops  at  a  mirror  on  the  wall,  and  stand- 
ing in  front  of  it,  tries  to  persuade  himself 
that  his  chin  is  not  so  bad  after  all.  Then 
he  pours  himself  out  some  coffee,  helps  him- 
self to  a  kipper  and  falls  to  ravenously.) 

Latimer:  Ah,  good  morning,  Leonard. 

Leonard:  (Starting  violently  and  turning  round.) 

Good  Lord !  I  didn't  know  you  were  there. 

Latimer:  You  were  so  hungry  ...  I  trust  you 
slept  well. 

Leonard:  Slept  well!  Of  all  the  damned  draughty 
rooms — Yes,  and  what  about  my  luggage? 

Latimer:    (Surprised.)    Your  luggage? 
Leonard:     Yes,  never  put  on  the  car,  your  fellow 
what's  'is  name — Joseph  says. 


50  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:    Dear  me,  we  must  enquire  into  this.   Lost 
your  luggage?     Dear  me,  that's  a  very  unfortunate 
start  for  a  honeymoon.  That  means  bad  luck,  Leonard. 
(Dominic  comes  in.} 

Dominic,  what's  this  about  his  lordship's  luggage? 

Dominic:  Joseph  tells  me  there  must  have  been 
some  misunderstanding  about  it,  sir.  A  little  care- 
lessness on  the  part  of  somebody,  I  imagine,  sir. 

Latimer:    Dear  me!    Didn't  it  come  with  him? 

Dominic:    I'm  afraid  not,  sir. 

Latimer:  Tut,  tut,  how  careless  of  somebody! 
Thank  you,  Dominic. 

Dominic:    Thank  you,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.} 

Latimer:  Lost  your  luggage.  How  excessively  an- 
noying! (Anxiously.}  My  dear  Leonard,  what  is  it? 

Leonard:  (Whose  face  has  been  shaping  for  it 
for  some  seconds.}  A-tish-oo! 

Latimer:  At  any  rate  I  can  find  you  a  handker- 
chief. (He  does  so.} 

(Leonard   takes  it  just  in   time   and   sneezes 
violently  again.} 

Leonard:    Thank  you. 

Latimer:  Not  at  all.  That's  a  very  nasty  cold 
you've  got.  How  wise  of  you  to  have  kept  on  a 
dressing-gown. 

Leonard:    The  only  thing  I  had  to  put  on. 

Latimer:  But  surely  you  were  travelling  in  a  suit 
yesterday?  I  seem  to  remember  a  brown  suit. 

Leonard:    That  fool  of  a  man  of  vours 

Latimer:     (Distressed.}     You  don't  mean  to  tell 

(Dominic  comes  in.} 


The  Dover  Road  51 

Dominic,  what's  this  about  his  lordship's  brown 
suit  ? 

Dominic:  Owing  to  a  regrettable  misunderstand- 
ing, sir,  his  lordship's  luggage 

Latimer:  Yes,  but  I'm  not  talking  about  his  twenty- 
five  other  suits,  I  mean  the  nice  brown  suit  that  he 
was  wearing  yesterday.  It  must  be  somewhere.  I  re- 
member noticing  it.  I  remember — (He  holds  up  his 
hand. )  Just  a  moment,  Dominic 

Leonard:    A-tish-oo. 

Latimer:  I  remember  saying  to  myself,  "What  a 
nice  brown  suit  Leonard  is  wearing."  Well,  where  is 
it,  Dominic? 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  I  seem  to  remember  the  suit 
to  which  you  are  referring.  I  regret  to  say  that 
Joseph  had  an  unfortunate  accident  with  it. 

Leonard:     (Growling.)     Damned  carelessness. 

Dominic:  Joseph  was  bringing  back  the  clothes 
after  brushing  them,  sir,  and  happened  to  have  them 
in  his  arms  while  bending  over  the  bath  in  order  to 
test  the  temperature  of  the  water  for  his  lordship. 
A  little  surprised  by  the  unexpected  heat  of  the  water, 
Joseph  relinquished  the  clothes  for  a  moment,  and  pre- 
cipitated them  into  the  bath. 

Latimer:  Dear  me,  how  extremely  careless  of 
Joseph ! 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir,  I  have  already  reprimanded  him. 
Leonard:    The  fellow  ought  to  be  shot. 
Latimer:     You're  quite  right,  Leonard.     Dominic, 
shoot  Joseph  this  morning. 

Dominic:     Yes,  sir. 

Latimer:  And  see  that  his  lordship's  suit  is  dried 
as  soon  as  possible. 


52  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir.     It  is  being  dried  now,  sir. 
Latimer:    But  it  must  be  dried  thoroughly,  Dominic. 
His  lordship  has  a  nasty  cold,  and 

Leonard :    A-tish-oo ! 

Latimer:  A  very  nasty  one.  I'm  afraid  you  are 
subject  to  colds,  Leonard? 

Leonard:  The  first  one  I've  ever  had  in  my  life. 
(He  sniffs.) 

Latimer:  Do  you  hear  that,  Dominic?  The  first 
one  he's  ever  had  in  his  life. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  If  you  remember,  sir,  Mr. 
Nicholas,  and  one  or  two  other  gentlemen  who  have 
slept  there,  caught  a  very  nasty  cold.  Almost  looks 
as  if  there  must  be  something  the  matter  with  the 
room. 

Leonard:    Damned  draughtiest  room 

Latimer:  Dear  me!  You  should  have  told  me  of 
this  before.  We  must  have  the  room  seen  to  at  once. 
And  be  sure  that  his  lordship  has  a  different  room  to- 
night. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Latimer:  (Sympathetically.}  My  dear  fellow,  I 
am  distressed  beyond  words.  But  you  know  the  say- 
ing, "Feed  a  cold,  starve  a  fever."  You  must  eat,  you 
must  eat.  (He  pushes  all  the  dishes  round  Leonard.} 
We  must  be  firm  with  this  cold.  We  must  suffocate 
it.  (Pressing  more  dishes  upon  him.}  You  were 
quite  right  not  to  shave.  The  protection  offered  by 
the  beard  though  small  is  salutary.  But  I  was  for- 
getting— perhaps  your  razor  is  lost  too? 

Leonard:    Damned  careless  fellows! 

Latimer:    I  must  lend  you  mine. 


The  Dover  Road  53 

Leonard:  (Feeling  his  chin.}  I  say,  I  wish  you 
would. 

Latimer:  I  will  get  it  at  once.  Meanwhile,  eat. 
No  half  measures  with  this  cold  of  yours.  My  poor 
fellow ! 

(He  hurries  out.    Leonard  gets  busy  with  his 

breakfast  again. 
Enter  Anne.) 

Anne:  (Hurrying  in.)  Leonard,  my  dear!  (She 
observes  him  more  thoroughly.)  My  dear  Leonard! 

Leonard:     (His  mouth  full.)     G'morning,  Anne. 

Anne:     (Coldly.)     Good  morning. 

Leonard:  (Getting  up,  napkin  in  hand.)  How  are 
you  this  morning?  (He  comes  towards  her,  wiping 
his  mouth.) 

Anne:  No,  please  go  on  with  your  breakfast.  (In 
alarm.)  What  is  it? 

(His  face  assumes  an  agonised  expression.    He 
sneezes. 
Anne  shudders.) 

Leonard:  Got  a  nasty  cold.  Can't  understand  it. 
First  I've  ever  had  in  my  life. 

Anne:    Do  you  sneeze  like  that  much? 

Leonard:    Off  and  on. 

Anne:  Oh!  .  .  .  Hadn't  you  better  get  on  with 
your  breakfast? 

Leonard:  Well,  I  will  if  you  don't  mind.  Good 
thing  for  a  cold,  isn't  it?  Eat  a  lot. 

Anne:     I  really  know  very  little  about  colds  .  .  . 
Do  get  on  with  your  breakfast. 

Leonard:  (Going  back.)  Well,  I  will  if  you  don't 
mind.  You  had  yours? 

Anne:    Yes. 


54  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:  That's  right.  (Resinning  it.)  Did  you 
have  one  of  these  kippers? 

Anne:    No. 

Leonard:  Ah!  A  pity.  I  will  say  that  for  Latimer's 
cook.  She  knows  how  to  do  a  kipper.  Much  more 
difficult  than  people  think. 

Anne:    I  really  know  very  little  about  kippers. 

Leonard:  I  have  often  wondered  why  somebody 
doesn't  invent  one  without  bones.  (He  takes  a  mouth- 
ful.) Seeing  what  science  can  do  nowadays — (He 
stops.)  Anne's  eye  is  on  him.  He  says  nothing  but 
waves  his  hand  for  her  to  look  the  other  n'cry. 

Anne:    What  is  it? 

(He  frowns  fiercely  and  continues  to  wave.  She 
says  coldly.) 

I  beg  your  pardon.  (She  turns  away  and  he  re- 
moves a  mouthful  of  bones.) 

Leonard:     (Cheerfully.)   Right  oh,  darling  .... 
After  all  what  do  they  want  all  these  bones  for?  Other 
fish  manage  without  them.     (He  continues  his  kipper.) 

Anne:  Leonard,  when  you  can  spare  me  a  moment 
I  should  like  to  speak  to  you. 

Leonard:  (Eating.)  My  darling,  all  my  time  is 
yours. 

Anne:  I  should  like  your  individual  attention  if  I 
can  have  it. 

Leonard:    Fire  away,  darling,  I'm  listening. 

Anne:  (Going  up  to  him.)  Have  you  finished 
your — kipper?  (She  takes  the  plate  away.)  What  are 
you  going  to  have  next? 

Leonard:    Well — what  do  you  recommend? 

Anne:  (Taking  off  a  cover.)  Omelette?  I  don'* 
think  it  has  any  bones. 


The  Dover  Road  55 

Leonard:    What's  in  that  other  dish? 
(She  takes  off  the  cover.} 

Kidneys?    What  are  the  kidneys  like? 

Anne:  (Coldly.)  Well,  you  can  see  what  they 
look  like. 

Leonard:    Did  you  try  one? 

Anne:  (Impatiently.)  They're  delightful,  I  tried 
several.  (She  helps  him.)  There!  Got  the  toast? 
Butter?  Salt?  What  is  it? 

Leonard:    Pepper. 

Anne:  Pepper — there.  Now  have  you  got  every- 
thing? 

Leonard:  Yes,  thank  you,  my  dear.  (He  picks  up 
his  knife  and  fork.) 

Anne:  (Putting  them  down  again.)  Then  before 
you  actually  begin,  I  have  something  I  want  to  say 
to  you. 

Leonard:    You're  very  mysterious.     What  is  it? 

Anne:  There  is  nothing  mysterious  about  it  at  all. 
It's  perfectly  plain  and  obvious.  Only  I  do  want  you 
to  grasp  it. 

Leonard:  Well?  (He  blows  his  nose.)  (She 
waits  for  him  to  finish. ) 

Well?  (He  is  still  flourishing  his  handkerchief. 
She  in'aits  patiently.  He  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket.) 
Well? 

Anne:  The  car  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Leonard:    The  car? 

Anne:    The  automobile. 

Leonard:    But  whose? 

Anne:    Ours.     More  accurately,  yours. 

Leonard:     But  what  for? 


56  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:  (Patiently.)  We  are  running  away  to- 
gether, dear.  You  and  I.  It  had  slipped  your  memory 
perhaps,  but  I  assure  you  it  is  a  fact.  The  car  will 
take  us  to  Dover,  and  the  boat  will  take  us  to  Calais, 
and  the  train  will  take  us  to  the  South  of  France. 
You  and  I,  dear.  When  you've  finished  your  break- 
fast. 

Leonard:    But  what  about  Latimer? 

Anne:  Just  you  and  I,  dear.  Two  of  us  only.  The 
usual  number.  We  shall  not  take  Mr.  Latimer. 

Leonard:  My  dear  Anne,  you  seem  quite  to  have 
forgotten  that  this  confounded  fellow  Latimer  has  got 
us  prisoners  here  until  he  chooses  to  let  us  go.  ( With 
dignity.)  I  have  not  forgotten.  I  eat  his  kidneys 
now,  but  he  shall  hear  from  me  afterwards.  Damned 
interference ! 

Anne:  Have  you  been  dreaming,  Leonard?  Be- 
fore all  these  kippers  and  kidneys  and  things? 

Leonard:    Dreaming? 

Anne:  The  car  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Why  not?  It  is  your  car.  This  is  England;  this  is 
the  twentieth  century.  We  missed  the  boat  and  spent 
the  night  here.  We  go  on  our  way  this  morning.  Why 
not? 

Leonard:  Well,  you  know,  I  said  last  night  it  was 
perfectly  ridiculous  for  Latimer  to  talk  that  way.  I 
mean  what  has  it  got  to  do  with  him?  Just  a  bit  of 
leg  pulling — that's  what  I  felt  all  the  time.  Stupid 
joke.  (Picking  up  his  knife  and  fork.}  Bad  taste 
too. 

Anne:  You  did  hear  what  I  said,  didn't  you?  The 
car  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  don't  know 
how  long  it  takes  you  to — (She  glances  him  over}  to 
shave,  and — and  dress  properly,  and — and  brush  your 


The  Dover  Road  57 

hair,  but  I  fancy  you  ought  to  be  thinking  about  it 
quite  seriously.  You  can  have  some  more  kidneys  an- 
other time. 

Leonard:     B-but  I  can't  possibly  go  like  this. 

Anne:    No,  that's  what  I  say. 

Leonard:  I  mean  I  haven't  got  any  luggage  for  one 
thing — and,  with  a  cold  like  this,  I'm  not  at  all  sure 


Anne:    You've  lost  your  luggage? 

Leonard:    Apparently  it  was  left  behind  by 

Anne:  (With  anger.)  You  let  yourself  be  tricked 
and  humiliated  by  this  Mr.  Latimer,  you  let  me  be 
humiliated,  and  then  when  I  say  that,  whatever  hap- 
pens, I  won't  be  humiliated,  you — you  lose  your  lug- 
gage! 

Leonard:  I  didn't  lose  it.  It  just  happens  to  be 
lost. 

Anne:    And  you  catch  a  cold! 

Leonard:    I  didn't  catch  it.     It  caught  me. 

Anne:     The — the   humiliation  of  it! And 

what  do  you  propose  to  do  now? 

Leonard:  As  soon  as  my  luggage  turns  up,  and  I 
am  well  enough  to  travel 

Anne:  Meanwhile  you  accept  this  man's  hos- 
pitality  

Leonard:  Under  protest.  (Helping  himself  from 
the  dish.)  I  shall  keep  a  careful  account  of  every- 
thing that  we  have  here 

Anne:  Well,  that's  your  third  kidney;  you'd  better 
make  a  note  of  it. 

Leonard:  (With  dignity.)  As  it  happens  I  was 
helping  myself  to  a  trifle  more  bacon As  I 


58  The  Dover  Road 

say,  I  shall  keep  a  careful  account,  and  send  him  a 
cheque  for  our  board  and  lodging  as  soon  as  we  have 
left  his  roof. 

Anne:  Oh!  ...  I  had  some  coffee  and  one  slice 
of  toast  and  a  little  marmalade.  About  a  spoonful. 
And  a  cup  of  tea  and  two  thin  slices  of  bread  and  but- 
ter upstairs.  Oh,  and  I've  had  two  baths.  They're 
extra,  aren't  they?  A  hot  one  last  night  and  a  cold 
one  this  morning.  I  think  that's  all.  Except  supper 
last  night,  and  you  wouldn't  let  me  finish  that,  so  I 

expect  there'll  be  a  reduction You  want  a 

note  book  with  one  of  those  little  pencils  in  it. 

Leonard:  (Reproachfully.')  I  say,  Anne,  look 
here 

Anne:    Do  go  on  with  your  breakfast. 

Leonard:  You're  being  awfully  unfair.  How  can 
we  possibly  go  now?  Why,  I  haven't  even  got  a  pair 
of  trousers  to  put  on. 

Anne:  You're  not  going  to  say  you've  lost  those 
too! 

Leonard:  (Sulkily.)  It's  not  my  fault.  That  fel- 
low— What's  'is  name 

Anne:  (Wonderingly.)  What  made  you  ever 
think  that  you  could  take  anybody  to  the  South  of 

France?  Without  any  practice  at  all? If  you 

had  been  taking  an  aunt  to  Hammersmith — well,  you 
might  have  lost  a  bus  or  two  ....  and  your  hat 
might  have  blown  off and  you  would  prob- 
ably have  found  yourselves  at  Hampstead  the  first  two 
or  three  times  ....  and  your  aunt  would  have 
stood  up  the  whole  way  ....  but  still  you  might 
have  got  there  eventually.  I  mean,  it  would  be  worth 
trying — if  your  aunt  was  very  anxious  to  get  to  Ham- 
mersmith. But  the  South  of  France!  My  dear 
Leonard!  It's  so  audacious  of  you. 


The  Dover  Road  59 

Leonard:    (Annoyed.}     Now,  look  here,  Anne 

(Mr.  Latimer  conies  in  cheerily  with  shaving- 
pot,  brush,  safety  razor  and  towel.) 

Latimer:  Now  then,  Leonard,  we'll  soon  have  you 
all  right.  (He  puts  the  things  down.)  Ah,  Anne! 
You  don't  mind  waiting  while  Leonard  has  a  shave? 
He  wanted  to  grow  a  special  beard  for  the  Continent 
but  I  persuaded  him  not  to.  The  French  accent  will 
be  quite  enough.  (Picking  up  the  razor.}  Do  you 
mind  Wednesday's  blade?  I  used  Tuesday's  myself 
this  morning. 

Anne:  Oh,  Mr.  Latimer,  I  find  that  we  shall  not 
want  the  car  after  all. 

Latimer:    No? 

Anne:  No.  Poor  Leonard  is  hardly  well  enough 
to  travel.  I  hope  that  by  tomorrow,  perhaps — But  I 
am  afraid  that  we  must  trespass  on  your  hospitality 
until  then.  I  am  so  sorry. 

Latimer:  But  I  am  charmed  to  have  you.  Let  me 
tell  your  maid  to  unpack. 

Anne:    Don't  trouble,  thanks.    I've  got  to  take  my 
hat  off.      (Very  sweetly  for  Latimer' s  benefit.}      I 
shan't  be  a  moment,  Leonard  darling. 
(She  goes  out.} 

Latimer:    Now  then,  Leonard  darling,  to  work. 

Leonard:     (Picking  up  the  things.}     Thanks. 

Latimer.    But  where  are  you  going? 

Leonard:    Upstairs,  of  course. 

Latimer:    Is  that  wise?    With  a  cold  like  yours? 

Leonard:     Damn  it,  I  can't  shave  down  here. 

Latimer:  Oh,  come,  we  mustn't  stand  on  ceremony 
when  your  life  is  at  stake.  You  were  complaining 
only  five  minutes  ago  of  the  draught  in  your  room. 
Now,  here  we  have  a  nice  even  temperature 


60  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:    Well,  there's  something  in  that. 

Latimer:  There's  everything  in  it.  Of  course 
you've  never  had  a  cold  before,  so  you  don't  know,  but 
any  doctor  will  tell  you  how  important  it  is  to  stay  in 
one  room — with  a  nice  even  temperature.  You  mustn't 
dream  of  going  upstairs. 

Leonard:     (Surrendering.')     Well 

Latimer:  That's  right.  Got  everything  you  want? 
There  are  plenty  of  mirrors.  Which  period  do  you 
prefer?  Queen  Anne? 

Leonard:    It's  all  right,  thanks. 

Latimer:    Good.    Then  I'll  leave  you  to  it. 

(He  goes  out.    Standing  in  front  of  a  glass  on 
the   wall,   Leonard   applies    the   soap.      His 
cheeks  are  just  getting  beautifully  creamy 
when  Nicholas  enters.} 
Nicholas:    Hallo! 

Leonard:     (Looking  round.}     Hallo! 
Nicholas:     Shaving? 

Leonard:  (Exasperated.)  Well,  what  the  devil 
did  you  think  I  was  doing? 

Nicholas:  Shaving.    (He  sits  down.  Leonard  gets 
on  with  the  good  work. ) 
Leonard :    A-tish-oo ! 
Nicholas:    Got  a  cold? 
Leonard:    Obviously. 

Nicholas:  (Sympathetically.)  Horrid,  sneezing 
when  you're  all  covered  with  soap. 

Leonard:  Look  here,  I  didn't  ask  for  your  com- 
pany, and  I  don't  want  your  comments. 

Nicholas:  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  was  here  first, 
and  I  didn't  ask  you  to  shave  in  this  hall. 


The  Dover  Road  61 

Leonard:  (With  dignity.)  There  are  reasons  why 
it  is  necessary  for  me  to  shave  in  the  hall. 

Nicholas:    Don't  bother  to  tell  me.     I  know  'em. 

Leonard:    What  do  you  mean? 

Nicholas:    You're  the  couple  that  arrived  last  night. 

Leonard:  (Looking  at  him,  thought/idly.)  And 
you're  the  couple  that  is  leaving  this  morning. 

Nicholas:    Exactly. 

Leonard:    Yes,  but  I  don't  see 

Nicholas:     You  haven't  tumbled  to  it  yet? 

Leonard:    Tumbled  to  what? 

Nicholas:  The  fact  that  a  week  ago  there  were 
reasons  why  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  shave  in  the 
hall. 

Leonard:    You!  ....  You  don't  mean 

Nicholas:    Yes,  I  do. 

Leonard:    You  lost  your  luggage? 

Nicholas:    Yes. 

Leonard:    You  woke  up  with  a  cold? 

Nicholas:  Yes  ....  Horrid,  sneezing  when  you're 
all  covered  with  soap. 

Leonard:  (Exactly.)  I  say,  that  fellow — what's 
'is  name — didn't  drop  your  clothes  in  the  bath? 

Nicholas:  Oh,  rather  .  .  .  Damned  smart  chap, 
Latimer. 

Leonard:    Damned  scoundrel. 

Nicholas:  Oh,  no.  He's  quite  right.  One  learns 
a  lot  down  here. 

Leonard:     I  shall  leave  his  house  at  once 

as  soon  as  I  have  shaved. 

Nicholas:    You  still  want  to? 

(Leonard  looks  at  him  in  surprise.) 


62  The  Dover  Road 

Oh,  well,  you've  hardly  been  here  long  enough,  I 
suppose. 

Leonard:  What  do  you  mean?  Don't  you  want  to 
any  more? 

Nicholas:  Latimer's  quite  right,  you  know.  One 
learns  a  lot  down  here. 

Leonard:     (Shaving).    What  about  the  lady? 

Nicholas:    That's  the  devil  of  it. 

Leonard:  My  dear  fellow,  as  a  man  of  honour, 
you're  bound  to  go  on. 

Nicholas:  As  a  man  of  honour,  ought  I  ever  to 
have  started? 

Leonard:    Naturally  I  can't  give  an  opinion  on  that. 

Nicholas:  No You  want  to  be  careful 

with  that  glass.  The  light  isn't  too  good.  I  should 
go  over  it  all  again. 

Leonard:  (Stiffly.}  Thank  you.  I  am  accustomed 
to  shaving  myself. 

Nicholas:  I  was  just  offering  a  little  expert  ad- 
vice. You  needn't  take  it. 

Leonard:  (Surveying  himself  doubtfully.)  H'm, 
perhaps  you're  right.  (He  lathers  himself  again.  In 
the  middle  of  it  he  stops  and  says.)  Curious  creatures, 
women. 

Nicholas:    Amazing. 

Leonard:  It's  a  life's  work  in  itself  trying  to  un- 
derstand 'em.  And  then  you're  no  further. 

Nicholas:  A  week  told  me  all  I  wanted  to  know. 

Leonard:  They're  so  unexpected. 

Nicholas:  So  unreasonable. 

Leonard:  What  was  it  the  poet  said  about  them? 

Nicholas:  What  didn't  he  say? 


The  Dover  Road  63 

Leonard:     No,  you  know  the  one  I  mean.     How 
does    it    begin?  .  .  .  "O    woman,    in    our    hours    of 

ease " 

Nicholas:    "Uncertain,  coy  and  hard  to  please." 
Leonard:    That's  it.     Well,  I  grant  you  thai- 


Nicholas:  Grant  it  me!  I  should  think  you  do! 
They  throw  it  at  you  with  both  hands. 

Leonard:  But  in  the  next  two  lines  he  misses  the 
point  altogether.  When — what  is  it? — "when  pain  and 
anguish  wring  the  brow" 

Nicholas:  (With  feeling.}  "A  ministering  angel 
thou." 

Leonard:    Yes,  and  it's  a  lie.     It's  simply  a  lie. 

Nicholas:  My  dear  fellow,  it's  the  truest  thing  any- 
body ever  said.  Only — only  one  gets  too  much  of  it. 

Leo  nard :    True  ?    Nonsense. 

Nicholas:  Evidently  you  don't  know  anything 
about  women. 

Leonard:  (Indignantly.}  I!  Not  know  anything 
about  women! 

Nicholas:  Well,  you  said  yourself  just  now  that 
you  didn't. 

Leonard:    I  never  said — what  I  said 

Nicholas:  If  you  did  know  anything  about  'em, 
you'd  know  that  there's  nothing  they  like  more  than 
doing  the  ministering  angel  business. 

Leonard:    Ministering  angel ! 

Nicholas:  Won't  you  have  a  little  more  of  this, 
and  won't  you  have  a  little  more  of  that,  and  how  is 
the  poor  cold  today,  and 

Leonard:  You  really  think  that  women  talk  like 
that? 

Nicholas:    How  else  do  you  think  they  talk? 


64  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:  My  dear  fellow!  ....  Why,  I  mean, 
just  take  my  own  case  as  an  example.  Here  am  I, 
with  a  very  nasty  cold,  the  first  I've  ever  had  in  my 
life.  I  sit  down  for  a  bit  of  breakfast — not  wanting 
it  particularly,  but  feeling  that,  for  the  sake  of  my 
health,  I  ought  to  try  and  eat  something.  And  what 
happens  ? 

(Larimer  has  com-e  in  during  this  speech.    He 
stops  and  listens  to  it.) 

Latimer:  (Trying  to  guess  the  answer.)  You  eat 
too  much. 

Leonard:  (Turning  round  angrily.)  Ah,  so  it's 
you!  You  have  come  just  in  time,  Mr.  Latimer.  I 
propose  to  leave  your  house  at  once. 

Latimer:     (Surprised.)     Not  like  that?     Not  with 
a  little  bit  of  soap  behind  the  ear  ? 
(Leonard  hastily  wipes  it.) 

The  other  ear. 

(Leonard  wipes  that  one.) 

That's  right. 

Leonard:    At  once,  sir. 

Nicholas:  You'd  better  come  with  us.  We're  just 
going. 

Leonard:    Thank  you. 

Latimer:    Four  of  you.    A  nice  little  party. 
(Anne  comes  in.) 

Leonard:  Anne,  my  dear,  we  are  leaving  the  house 
at  once.  Are  you  ready  ? 

Anne:  (Looking  from  one  to  the  other  in  surprise.) 
But  I've  just  taken  my  hat  off.  Besides,  you  can't 
go  like  that. 

(Leonard  hastily  wipes  his  ear  again.) 
Latimer:    No,  no,  she  means  the  costume  this  time. 


The  Dover  Road  65 

Leonard:  Mr.  Latimer,  I  insist  on  having  my 
clothes  restored  to  me. 

Latimer:    Wet  or  dry,  you  shall  have  them. 

Anne:    But 

Eustasia:    (From  outside.}    Nich-o-las! 
(Leonard  looks  up  in  astonishment.) 

Nicholas:     (Gloomily.')     Hallo! 

Eustasia:     Where  are  you? 

Nicholas:    Here ! 

(Eustasia  comes  in.} 

Eustasia:  Are  you  ready,  darling?  (She  stops  on 
seeing  them  all,  and  looks  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
sees  her  husband. )  Leonard ! 

Nicholas:     (Understanding.)     Leonard! 

Leonard:    Eustasia! 

Anne:    Eustasia! 

(They  stare  at  each  other — open-mouthed — all 
but  Mr.  Latimer.  His  eyes  on  the  ceiling, 
whistling  a  little  tune  to  himself.  Mr.  Lati- 
mer walks — almost,  you  might  say,  dances — 
up  and  down,  up  and  down  behind  them,  "I 
did  this!"  he  is  saying  to  himself,  "I  did  it!") 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

We  are  just  where  we  were — except  that  Mr.  La  timer 
has  stopped  his  dance,  and  is  regarding  his  insitors 
benevolently.  Their  mouths  are  now  closed,  but 
they  have  not  said  anything  yet. 

Anne:  (Impatiently.)  Oh,  isn't  anybody  going-  to 
say  anything?  Mr.  Latimer,  while  Leonard  is  think- 
ing of  something,  you  might  introduce  me  to  his  wife. 

Latimer:    I  beg  your  pardon,  Eustasia,  this  is  Anne. 

Anne:    How  do  you  do? 

Eustasia,:    How  do  you  do? 

Latimer:    Leonard,  this  is  Nicholas. 

Nicholas:  (Nodding.)  We've  met.  Quite  old 
friends. 

Leonard:  I  repudiate  the  friendship.  We  met  un- 
der false  pretences.  I — I — Well,  upon  my  word,  I 
don't  know  what  to  say. 

Nicholas:  Then  don't  say  it,  old  boy.  Here  we  all 
are,  and  we've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leonard:    I — I — a-tish-oo! 

Eustasia:    (Alarmed.)     Leonard,  you  have  a  cold? 

Nicholas:    A  very  nasty  cold. 

Anne:  (Coldly.)  It  will  be  better  when  he  has 
finished  his  breakfast. 

Leonard:  (Hurt.)  I  have  finished  my  breakfast. 
A  long  time  ago. 

66 


The  Dover  Road  67 

Anne:  I  beg  your  pardon.  (She  indicates  the  towel 
round  his  neck.)  I  misunderstood. 

Leonard:     (Pulling  it  away.)     I've  been  shaving. 

Eustasia.:  But,  Leonard  dear,  I  don't  understand. 
I've  never  known  you  ill  before. 

Leonard:  I  never  have  been  ill  before.  But  I  am 
ill  now.  Very  ill.  And  nobody  minds.  Nobody 
minds  at  all.  This  fellow  Latimer  invaygles  me  here — 

Latimer :     Inveegles. 

Leonard:  I  shall  pronounce  it  how  I  like.  It  is 
(juite  time  I  asserted  myself.  I  have  been  too  patient, 
iou  invaygle  me  here  and  purposely  give  me  a  cold. 
You — (pointing  accusingly  to  Anne) — are  entirely 
unmoved  by  my  sufferings,  instead  of  which  you  make 
fun  of  the  very  simple  breakfast  which  I  had  forced 
myself  to  eat.  You — (to  Nicholas)  run  away  with 
my  wife,  at  a  time  when  I  am  ill  and  unable  to  pro- 
tect her,  and  you — (to  Eustasia) — well,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  you  surprise  me,  Eustasia,  you  surprise  me.  I 
didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you. 

Latimer:  A  masterly  summing  up  of  the  case. 
Well,  I  hope  you're  all  ashamed  of  yourselves. 

Eustasia:  But,  Leonard,  how  rash  of  you  to  think 
of  running  away  with  a  cold  like  this.  (She  goes  up 
and  comforts  him.)  You  must  take  care  of  yourself — 
Eustasia  will  take  care  of  you  and  get  you  well.  Poor 
boy!  He  had  a  nasty,  nasty  cold,  and  nobody  looked 
after  him.  Mr.  Latimer,  I  shall  want  some  mustard, 
and  hot  water,  and  eucalyptus. 

Latimer:    But  of  course! 

Leonard:  (To  Anne.)  There  you  are!  As  soon 
as  somebody  who  really  understands  illness  comes  on 


68  The  Dover  Road 

the  scene,  you  see  what  happens.     Mustard,  hot  water, 
eucalyptus — she  has  it  all  at  her  finger  ends. 
(Enter  Dominic.') 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir? 

Latimer:    A  small  mustard  and  water  for  his  lord- 
ship. 

Eustasia:    It's  to  put  his  feet  in,  not  to  drink. 

Latimer:    A  large  mustard  and  water. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 

Eustasia:    Hot  water. 

Dominic:    Yes,  my  lady. 

Eustasia:    And  if  you  have  any  eucalyptus 

Dominic:     Yes,  my  lady,  we  got  some  in  specially 
for  his  lordship. 

Latimer:     Did    Mr.    Nicholas   absorb   all   the   last 
bottle? 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 

Nicholas:     (With  feeling.)     I  fairly  lived  on  it. 

Dominic:     (To  Eustasia.)     Is  there  anything  else 
his  lordship  will  require? 

Nicholas:     What  about  a  mustard-plaster? 

Leonard:     Please  mind  your  own  business. 

Eustasia:     No,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  else, 
thank  you. 

Nicholas:    Well,  I  call  that  very  unfair.    I  had  one. 

Leonard:      Oh,    did    you?      Well,    in    that    case, 
Eustasia,  I  certainly  don't  see  why 

Latimer:     (To  Dominic.)     Two  mustard-plasters. 
We  mustn't  grudge  his  lordship  anything. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 
(He  retires.) 


The  Dover  Road  69 

Eustasia:  (To  Leonard.}  Now  come  over  here, 
darling,  away  from  the  door.  (She  leads  him  to  an 
armchair  in  the  corner  of  the  room.}  Lean  on  me. 

Anne:    Surely  one  can  walk  with  a  cold  in  the  head! 
Nicholas:    No,  it's  very  dangerous. 
Latimer:     Nicholas  speaks  as  an  expert. 

Eustasia:  (Settling  Leonard.}  There!  Is  that 
comfy? 

Leonard:    Thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:    We'll  soon  have  you  all  right,  dear. 

Leonard:    (Pressing  her  hand.}    Thank  you. 

Latimer:  (After  a  little  silence.}  Well,  as  Nicholas 
said  just  now,  "Here  we  all  are  and  we've  got  to 
make  the  best  of  it."  What  are  we  all  going  to  do? 

Anne:  Please  leave  me  out  of  it.  I  can  make  my 
own  arrangements.  (She  gives  them  a  cool  little  bow 
as  she  goes  out.)  If  you  will  excuse  me. 

(Dominic  comes  in  until  a  clinical  thermometer 
on  a  tray.} 

Dominic:  I  thought  that  her  ladyship  might  re- 
quire a  thermometer  for  his  lordship's  temperature. 

Eustasia:  (Coming  to  him.}  Thank  you.  I  think 
it  would  be  safer  just  to  take  it.  And  I  wondered  if 
we  couldn't  just  put  this  screen  round  his  lordship's 
chair. 

Dominic:  Certainly,  my  lady,  one  can't  be  too  care- 
ful. (He  helps  her  zinth  it.) 

'Eustasia:    Yes,  that's  right. 

Latimer:  (To  Nicholas.)  Did  you  have  the 
screen  ? 

Nicholas:     Oh,  rather. 
Latimer:    And  the  thermometer? 


7O  The  Dover  Road 

Nicholas:     Yes Funny  thing  was  T  liked 

it  just  at  first.     I  don't  mean  the  actual  thermometer, 
I  mean  all  the  fussing. 

Latimer:  It's  a  wonderful  invention,  a  cold  in  the 
head.  It  finds  you  out.  There's  nothing  like  it, 
Nicholas,  nothing. 

Eustasia:  (To  Dominic.}  Thank  you.  And  you're 
bringing  the  other  things? 

Dcminic:    Yes,  my  lady,  as  soon  as  ready. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Eustasia:  Thank  you.  (To  Leonard.)  Now,  dear, 
Under  the  tongue.  (She  puts  it  in  his  mouth.} 

Leonard:     (Mumbling.}     I  don't  think  I  ever 

Eustasia:  No,  dear,  don't  try  to  talk.  (She  takes 
out  her  watch.} 

Nicholas:     (Coming  close  to  Latimer.}     I  say 

Latimer:    Well? 

Nicholas:  (Indicating  the  screen.}  I  say,  not  too 
loud. 

Latimer:     (In  a  whisper.}     Well? 
Nicholas:    Well,  what  about  it? 
Latimer:    What  about  what? 

Nicholas:    I  mean,  where  do  I  come  in?    As  a  man 

of  honour  oughtn't  I  to — er You   see  what   I 

mean?    Of  course  I  want  to  do  the  right  thing. 

Latimer:  Naturally,  my  dear  Nicholas.  It's  what 
one  expected  of  you. 

Nicholas:  I  thought  that  if  I  slipped  away  now,  un- 
ostentatiously   

Latimer:  With  just  a  parting  word  of  farewell 


The  Dover  Road  71 

Nicholas:  Well,  that  was  what  I  was  wondering. 
Would  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  farewell  be  in  good 
taste  ? 

Latimer:    I  see  your  point. 

Nicholas:  Don't  think  that  I'm  not  just  as  devoted 
to  Eustasia  as  ever  I  was. 

Latimer:  But  you  feel  that  in  the  circumstances 
you  could  worship  her  from  afar  with  more  propriety. 

Nicholas:  (Waving  a  hand  at  the  screen.)  Yes. 
You  see,  I  had  no  idea  that  they  were  so  devoted. 

Latimer:    But  their  devotion  may  not  last  forever. 

Nicholas:  Exactly.  That's  why  I  thought  I'd  slip 
away  now. 

Latimer:    Oh,  Nicholas!    Oh,  Nicholas! 

Nicholas:  (A  little  offended.)  Well,  I  don't  want 
to  say  anything  against  Eustasia 

Latimer:  There  are  so  many  people  who  don't  want 
to  say  anything  against  Eustasia. 

Nicholas:     But,  you  see Look  out,  here's  Miss 

Anne. 

(Anne  comes  in.) 

Latimer:  Anne,  you're  just  in  time.  Nicholas 
wants  your  advice. 

Nicholas:    I  say,  shut  up!    We  can't  very  well 

Anne:  Mr.  Latimer,  I  went  upstairs  to  get  my 
things  and  find  my  way  to  the  nearest  railway  station. 
But — but  there  is  a  reason  why  I  am  not  going  after 
all.  Just  yet.  I  thought  I'd  better  tell  you. 

Latimer:  Were  you  really  thinking  of  going? 
(She  nods.)  I'm  so  glad  you've  changed  your  mind. 

Anne:  (With  a  smile.)  There  are  reasons  why  I 
had  to. 


72  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:  Bless  them Nicholas,  I  believe 

she  stayed  just  so  that  she  might  help  you. 

Anne:    What  does  Mr.  Nicholas  want? 

Nicholas:  I  say,  it's  awfully  good  of  you  and  all 
that,  but  this  is  rather — I  mean,  it's  a  question  that  a 
fellow  ought  to  settle  for  himself. 

Latimer:  What  he  means  is,  ought  he  to  get  his 
things  and  find  his  way  to  the  nearest  railway  station? 

Anne:     (Dismayed.)     Oh,  no! 

Latimer:     There  you  are,   Nicholas. 

Nicholas:  (Rather  flattered.)  Oh,  well — well — 
(He  looks  at  her  admiringly.}  Well,  perhaps  you're 
right. 

Eustasia:  (The  three  minutes  up.}  There!  (She 
takes  the  thermometer  out  and  comes  from  behind  the 
screen  in  order  to  get  nearer  the  light.) 

Latimer:  His  temperature!  This  is  an  exciting 
moment  in  the  history  of  the  House  of  Lords.  (He 
follows  Eustasia  to  tlie  window.) 

Nicholas:  (To-  Anne.)  I  say,  do  you  really  think 
I  ought  to  stay? 

Anne:     Please,  Mr.  Nicholas,  I  want  you  to  stay. 

Nicholas:     Righto,  then  I'll  stay. 

Latimer:  (Over  Eustasia's  shoulder.)  A  hundred 
and  nine. 

Leonard:  (Putting  his  head  round  the  screen.)  I 
say,  what  ought  it  to  be? 

Nicholas:     Ninety-eight. 

Leonard:    Good  Lord,  I'm  dying! 

Eustasia:  It's  just  ninety-nine.  A  little  over  nor- 
mal, Leonard,  but  nothing  to  matter. 

Latimer:  Ninety-nine — so  it  is.  I  should  never 
have  forgiven  myself  if  it  had  been  a  hundred  and 
nine. 


The  Dover  Road  73 

Nicholas:  (Coming  up  to  Larimer.}  It's  all  right, 
I'm  going  to. 

Eustasia:  (Surprised.)  Going  to?  Going  to 
what? 

Nicholas:     (Confused.}     Oh,  nothing. 

La-timer:  What  he  means  is  that  he  is  going  to  be 
firm.  He  thinks  we  all  ought  to  have  a  little  talk  about 
things.  Just  to  see  where  we  are. 

Eustasia:  Well,  things  aren't  quite  as  they  were, 
are  they?  If  I'd  known  that  Leonard  was  ill — but  I've 
seen  so  little  of  him  lately.  And  he's  never  been  ill 
before ! 

Nicholas:  Of  course  we  ought  to  know  where  we 
are. 

Latimer:  Yes.  At  present  Leonard  is  behind  that 
screen,  which  makes  it  difficult  to  discuss  things  prop- 
erly. Leonard,  could  you 

Eustasia:  Oh,  we  mustn't  take  any  risks.  But  if 
we  moved  the  screen  a  little,  and  all  sat  up  at  that  end 
of  the  room 

Latimer:    Delightful! 

Nicholas:  (Leading  the  way.)  Sit  here,  Miss 
Anne,  won't  you? 

(They   arrange   themselves.      Latimer   in   the 
middle. ) 

Latimer:     There!     Now  are  we  all  here?  .... 
We  are.    Then  with  your  permission,  Ladies  and  Gen- 
tlemen,   I    will    open    the   proceedings    with   a    short 
speech. 

Nicholas:  Oh,  I  say,  must  you? 

Latimer:  Certainly. 
Eustasia:     (To  Leonard.)     Hush,  dear. 

Leonard:  I  didn't  say  anything. 


74  The  Dover  Road 

Eustasia:    No,  but  you  were  just  going  to. 

Latitner:  (Sei'erely.)  Seeing  that  I  refrained 
from  making  my  speech  when  Leonard  had  the  ther- 
mometer in  his  mouth,  the  least  he  can  do  now  is  to 
listen  in  silence. 

Leonard:    Well,  I'm 

Latimer:  I  resume  ....  By  a  fortunate  con- 
catenation of  circumstances,  ladies  and  gentlemen — or, 
as  more  illiterate  men  would  say,  by  a  bit  of  luck — 
two  runaway  couples  have  met  under  my  roof.  No 
need  to  mention  names.  You  can  all  guess  for  your- 
selves. But  I  call  now — this  is  the  end  of  my  speech, 
Leonard — I  call  now  upon  my  noble  friend  on  the 
right  to  tell  us  just  why  he  left  the  devoted  wife  by 
his  side  in  order  to  travel  upon  the  Continent. 

Leonard:    Well,  really 

Latimer:  Naturally  Leonard  does  not  wish  to  say 
anything  against  Eustasia.  Very  creditable  to  him. 
But  can  it  be  that  the  devoted  wife  by  his  side  wishes 
to  say  anything  against  Leonard? 

Eustasia:  You  neglected  me,  Leonard,  you  know 
you  did.  And  when  I  was  so  ill 

Leonard:  My  dear,  you  were  always  ill.  That  was 
the  trouble. 

Latimer:  And  you  were  never  ill,  Leonard.  That 
was  the  trouble  ....  You  heartless  ruffian! 

Eustasia:     (To  Leonard.}     Hush,  dear. 

Latimer:  Why  couldn't  you  have  had  a  cold  some- 
times? Why  couldn't  you  have  come  home  with  a 
broken  leg,  or  lost  your  money,  or  made  a  rotten 
speech  in  the  House  of  Lords?  If  she  could  never  be 
sorry  for  you,  for  whom  else  could  she  be  sorry,  ex- 
cept herself?  (To  Eustasia.)  I  don't  suppose  he  even 
lost  his  umbrella,  did  he? 


The  Dover  Road  75 

Anne:    Oh,  he  must  have  lost  that. 

Latimer:  Eustasia,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  one  of 
those  dear  women,  those  sweet  women,  those  delight- 
ful women — (Aside  to  Anne) — stop  me  if  I'm  laying 
it  on  too  thick — those  adorable  women  who  must  al- 
ways cosset  or  be  cosseted.  She  couldn't  cosset 
Leonard;  Leonard  wouldn't  cosset  her.  Hence — the 
Dover  Road. 

Eustasia:    How  well  you  understand,  Mr.  Latimer! 

Latimer:  Enter,  then,  my  friend  Nicholas.  (Shak- 
ing his  head  at  him. )  Oh,  Nicholas !  Oh,  Nicholas  I 
Oh,  Nicholas! 

Nicholas:     (Uneasily.)     What's  all  that  about? 

Latimer:  Anything  you  say  will  be  used  in  evi- 
dence against  you.  Proceed,  my  young  friend. 

Nicholas:    Well — well — well,  I  mean,  there  she  was. 

Latimer :    Lonely. 

Nicholas:    Exactly. 

Latimer:  Neglected  by  her  brute  of  a  husband — 
(As  Leonard  opens  his  month)  fingers  crossed, 
Leonard — who  spent  day  and  night  rioting  in  the 
House  of  Lords  while  his  poor  little  wife  cried  at 
home. 

Nicholas :    Well 

Latimer:  Then  out  spake  bold  Sir  Nicholas — 
(Aside  to  Anne.)  This  was  also  composed  in  my 

bath 

Then  out  spake  bold  Sir  Nicholas, 

An  Oxford  man  was  he: 
"Lo,  I  will  write  a  note  tonight 
And  ask  her  out  to  tea." 

Nicholas:    Well,  you  see — 

Latimer:  I  see,  Nicholas  ....  And  so  here  we  all 
are. 


76  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:    Except  me. 

Latimer:  I  guessed  at  you,  Anne.  Did  I  guess 
right? 

Anne:    Yes. 

Latimer:  And  so  here  we  all  are  ....  And  what 
are  we  all  going  to  do?  My  house  is  at  your  disposal 
for  as  long  as  you  wish.  The  doors  are  open  for  those 
who  wish  to  go  ....  Eustasia  ? 

Eustasia:  My  duty  is  to  stay  here — to  look  after 
my  husband. 

Latimer:    Well,  that  settles  Eustasia  ....  Anne? 

Anne:  Of  necessity  I  must  stay  here — for  the 
present. 

Latimer:    Well,  that  settles  Anne  ....  Nicholas? 

Nicholas:  I  stay  here  too — (Looking  at  Anne) 
from  choice. 

Latimer:       Well,     that     settles     Nicholas  .... 
Leonard  ? 

(Dominic,  followed  by  all  the  Staff,  comes  in, 
together  with  a  collection  of  mustard-baths, 
plasters,  eucalyptus,  etc.,  etc.) 

Latimer:  (Looking  round  at  the  interruption.) 
Ah!  ....  And  this  will  settle  Leonard. 


SCENE  II 

Three  days  later,  and  evening  again.  Anne  is  busy 
with  a  pencil  and  paper,  an  A.  B.  C.  and  her  purse. 
She  is  trying  to  work  out  how  much  it  costs  to  go 
home,  and  subtracting  three  and  fourpence 
ha'penny  from  it.  Having  done  this,  she  puts  the 


The  Dover  Road  77 

paper,  pencil  and  purse  in  her  bag,  returns  the 
A.  B.  C.  to  its  home,  and  goes  towards  the  door. 
One  gathers  that  she  has  come  to  a  decision. 

Anne :    ( Calling. )     Nich-o-las ! 

Nicholas:     (From  outside.}     Hallo! 

Anne:    Where — are — you? 

Nicholas:  Coming.  (He  comes.}  Just  went  up- 
stairs to  get  a  pipe.  (Putting  his  hand  to  his  pocket.} 
And  now  I've  forgotten  it. 

(They  go  to  the  sofa  together.} 

Anne:  Oh,  Nicholas,  how  silly  you  are!  (She  sits 
down. } 

Nicholas:  (Sitting  close.}  I  don't  want  to  smoke, 
you  know. 

Anne:    I  thought  men  always  did. 

Nicholas:    Well,  it  depends  what  they're  doing. 
(There  is  no  doubt  what  he  is  doing.     He  i'j 
making  love  to  Anne,  the  dog,  and  Anne  is 
encouraging  him.} 

Anne:     (Looking  away.}     Oh! 

Nicholas:  I  say,  it  has  been  rather  jolly  here  thr 
last  three  days,  don't  you  think? 

Anne:    It  has  been  rather  nice. 

Nicholas:    We've  sort  of  got  so  friendly. 

Anne:    We  have,  haven't  we? 

Nicholas:    You've  been  awfully  nice  to  me. 

Anne:    You've  been  nice  to  me. 

Nicholas:  I  should  have  gone,  you  know,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you. 

Anne:  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if 
you  had  gone. 

Nicholas:    You  did  ask  me  to  stay,  didn't  you? 


78  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:    Yes,  I  couldn't  let  you  go. 

Nicholas:  Do  you  know  what  you  said?  You  said, 
"Please,  Mr.  Nicholas,  I  want  you  to  stay."  I  shall 
always  remember  that.  (Fatuously  to  himself.} 
"Please,  Mr.  Nicholas,  I  want  you  to  stay."  I  won- 
der what  made  you  think  of  saying  that. 

Anne:  I  wanted  us  to  be  friends.  I  wanted  to  get 
to  know  you;  to  make  you  think  of  me  as — as  your 
friend. 

Nicholas:    We  are  friends,  Anne,  aren't  we? 

Anne:     I  think  we  are  now,  Nicholas. 

Nicholas:     (With  a  sentimental  sigh.}     Friends! 
(Anne  looks  at  him,  wondering  if  she  shall  risk 
it;  then  away  again;  then  summons  up  her 
courage  and  takes  the  plunge.} 

Anne:    Nicholas ! 

Nicholas:    Yes? 

Anne:  (Timidly.}  I — I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me. 

Nicholas:    Anything,  Anne,  anything. 

Anne:    I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  ask  you. 

Nicholas:    Of  course  you  ought! 

Anne:  But  you  see,  we  are  friends — almost  like 
brother  and  sister 

Nicholas:  (Disappointed.}  Well,  I  shouldn't  put 
it  quite  like  that 

Anne:    And  I  thought  I  might  ask  you 

Nicholas:  Of  course,  Anne!  You  know  I  would  do 
anything  for  you. 

Anne:  Yes  ....  Well— well—  (In  a  rush}  Well, 
then,  will  you  lend  me  one  pound  two  and  sixpence 
till  next  Monday? 

Nicholas:    Lend  you ! 


The  Dover  Road  79 

Anne:  Today's  Friday,  I'll  send  you  the  money  off 
on  Sunday.  I  promise.  Of  course  I  know  one  oughtn't 
to  borrow  from  men,  but  you're  different.  Almost 
like  a  brother.  I  knew  you  would  understand. 

Nicholas:    But — but — I  don't  understand. 

Anne:  (Ashamed.}  You  see,  I — I  only  have  three 
and  fourpence  ha'penny.  And  it  costs  one  pound  five 
and  twopence  to  get  home.  (Indignantly.}  Oh,  it's 
a  shame  the  way  men  always  pay  for  us,  and  then  when 
we  really  want  money,  we  haven't  got  any  ....  But  I 
will  pay  you  back  on  Sunday.  I  have  some  money  at 
home,  I  meant  to  have  brought  it. 

Nicholas:    But — but  why  do  you  suddenly 

Anne:  Suddenly?  I've  been  wanting  it  ever  since 
that  first  morning.  I  went  upstairs  to  get  my  hat, 
meaning  to  walk  straight  out  of  the  house — and  then 
I  looked  in  my  purse  and  found — (Pathetically)  three 
and  fourpence  ha'penny.  What  was  I  to  do? 

Nicholas:     Anyone  would  have  lent  you  anything. 

Anne:    (Coldly}.    Leonard,  for  instance? 

Nicholas:    (Thoughtfully.)    Well  ....  no  ... 
No.     You  couldn't  very  well  have  touched  Leonard. 
But  Latimer 

Anne:  Mr.  Latimer!  The  man  who  had  brought 
us  here,  locked  us  up  here,  and  started  playing  Provi- 
dence to  us — I  was  to  go  on  my  knees  to  him  and  say 
"Please,  dear  Mr.  Latimer,  could  you  lend  me  one 
pound  two  and  sixpence,  so  that  I  may  run  away  from 
your  horrid  house."  Really ! 

Nicholas:  Well,  you  seem  to  have  been  pretty 
friendly  with  him  these  three  days. 

Anne:  Naturally  I  am  polite  to  a  man  when  I  am 
staying  in  his  house.  That's  a  different  thing. 


So  The  Dover  Road 

Nicholas:  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Latimer  has  been 
jolly  decent.  Anyway,  he  has  saved  us  both  from  mak- 
ing silly  asses  of  ourselves. 

Anne:  And  you  think  I  am  grateful  to  him  for 
that?  ....  Doesn't  any  man  understand  any  woman ? 

Nicholas:  (Annoyed.)  Are  you  suggesting  that  / 
don't  understand  women? 

'Anne:  I'm  suggesting  that  you  should  lend  me  one 
pound  two  shillings  and  sixpence. 

Nicholas:  (Sulkily,  feeling  in  his  pockets.)  Of 
course,  if  you're  in  such  a  confounded  hurry  to  get 
away  from  here Do  you  mind  all  silver? 

Anne:    Not  at  all. 

Nicholas:  In  such  a  confounded  hurry  to  get  away 
from  here — (He  counts  the  money.) 

Anne:    Why  ever  should  I  want  to  stay? 

Nicholas:  Well — well — (With  a  despairing  shrug.) 
Oh,  Lord!  .  .  .  Ten  shillings  .  .  .  fourteen  and  six 
.  .  .  why  should  she  want  to  stay!  Why  do  you 
think  I'm  staying? 

Anne:  Because  you're  so  fond  of  Mr.  Latimer. 
He's  so  jolly  decent. 

Nicholas:  (Looking  at  the  money  in  his  hand.) 
One  pound  two  shillings  and  sixpence.  I  suppose  if  I 
told  you  what  I  really  thought  about  it  all,  you'd  get 
on  your  high  horse  again  and  refuse  the  money  from 
me.  So  I  won't  tell  you.  Here  you  are. 

Anne:  (Gently.)  You  didn't  think  I  was  in  love 
with  you,  Nicholas? 

(Nicholas  looks  uncomfortable.) 

In  three  days?    Oh,  Nicholas! 

Nicholas:  Well — well,  I  don't  see — (Holding  out 
the  money.) 


The  Dover  Road  81 

Anne:    From  a  friend? 
Nicholas:    From  a  friend. 
Anne:     Lent  to  a  friend? 
Nicholas:    Lent  to  a  friend. 

Anne:     (Taking  it.)     Thank  you,  Nicholas.     (She 
gets  up.    He  begins  to  get  up  too.)     No,  don't  bother. 
(She  walks  to  the  door.    At  the  door  she  says.)   Thank 
you  very  much,  Nicholas.     (She  goes  out.) 
Nicholas:    Well,  I'm  damned! 

(He  sits  there  gloomily,  his  legs  stretched  out, 
and  regards  his  shoes.  So  far  as  we  can  tell 
he  goes  on  saying,  "Well,  I'm  damned"  to 
himself.  Eustasia  and  Leonard  come  in.  He 
is  properly  dressed  now,  but  still  under 
Eustasia's  care,  and  she  has  his  arm,  as  if  he 
were  attempting  a  very  difficult  feat  in  walk- 
ing across  the  hall.) 

Nicholas:      (Looking  round.)      Hallo!      (Getting 
up.)     Do  you  want  to  come  here? 

Leonard:     (Hastily.)     Don't  go,  old  boy,  don't  go. 
Plenty  of  room  for  us  all. 

Eustasia:     Thank  you  so  much.     Leonard  is  not 
very  strong  yet.     His  temperature  is  up  again  today. 
(To  Leonard.)    You  will  be  better  on  the  sofa,  darling. 
(To  Nicholas.)     I'm  so  sorry  to  trouble  you. 
Nicholas:    Not  at  all.    I  was  just  going  anyhow. 
Leonard:     (Sitting  on  the  sofa.)      Oh,  nonsense. 
Stay  and  talk  to  us.     Plenty  of  room  for  us  all. 

Nicholas:    (Feeling  in  his  pockets.)     Got  to  get  my 
pipe.    Left  it  upstairs  like  an  ass. 

Leonard:    (Taking  out  his  case.)    Have  a  cigarette 
instead  ? 

Nicholas:    Rather  have  a  pipe,  thanks.     (He  makes 
for  the  door.) 


82  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:     (Anxiously.)     But  you'll  come  back? 

Nicholas:     (Unwillingly.}      Oh — or — righto. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Leonard:  Come  and  keep  us  company.  (To 
Eustasia  who  is  tucking  him  up.)  Thanks,  Eustasia, 
thanks.  That's  quite  all  right. 

Eustasia:    Another  cushion  for  your  back,  darling? 

Leonard:    No,  thanks. 

Eustasia:    Quite  sure? 

Leonard:     Quite  sure,  thanks. 

Eustasia:    I  can  easily  get  it  for  you. 

Leonard:     (Weakly.)     Oh,  very  well. 

Eustasia:  That's  right.  (Getting  the  cushion.) 
You  must  be  comfortable.  Now,  are  you  sure  that's 
all  right? 

Leonard:    Quite  all  right,  thank  you. 

Eustasia:  Sure,  darling?  Anything  else  you  want, 
I  can  get  it  for  you  at  once.  A  rug  over  your  knees  ? 

Leonard:    No,  thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:    You  wouldn't  like  a  hot-water  bottle? 

Leonard:    ( With  a  sigh. )    No,  thank  you,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:  You've  only  got  to  say,  you  know.  Now 
shall  we  talk,  or  would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you? 
(She  settles  down  next  to  him.) 

Leonard:  (Choosing  the  lesser  evil.)  I  think  read 
— no,  I  mean,  talk — no,  read  to  me. 

Eustasia:    It's  for  you  to  say,  darling. 

Leonard:    (His  eyes  closed.)    Read  to  me,  Eustasia. 

Eustasia:  (Opening  her  book.)  We'll  go  on  from 
where  we  left  off.  We  didn't  get  very  far — I  marked 
the  place  .  .  .  Yes,  here  we  are.  "...  the  sandy 
deserts  of  Arabia  and  Africa "  And  then 


The  Dover  Road  83 

there's  a  little  footnote  at  the  bottom;  that's  how  I 
remember  it.  (Reading  the  footnote.)  "Tacit.  Annal. 
l.ii,  Dion  Casius  1.  Ivi.  p.  833  and  the  speech  of  Augus- 
tus himself."  That  doesn't  seem  to  mean  much.  "It 
receives  great  light  from  the  learned  notes  of  his 
French  translator  M.  Spanheim."  Well,  that's  a  good 
thing.  Spanheim — sounds  more  like  a  German,  doesn't 
it?  Now  are  you  sure  you're  quite  comfortable,  dear? 

Leonard:  (His  eyes  dosed.)  Yes,  thank  you, 
Eustasia. 

Eustasia:  Then  I'll  begin.  (In  her  reading-aloud 
voice.)  "Happily  for  the  repose  of  mankind,  the  moder- 
ate system  recommended  by  the  wisdom  of  Augustus, 
was  adopted  by  the  fears  and  vices  of  his  immediate 
successors.  Engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  or  the 
exercise  of  tyranny,  the  first  Caesars  seldom  showed 
themselves  to  the  armies,  or  to  the  provinces;  nor, 
were  they  disposed  to  suffer  that  those  triumphs  which 
their  indolence  neglected  should  be  usurped  by  the  con- 
duct and  valour  or  their  lieutenants."  (Speeding  up.) 
"The  military  fame  of  a  subject  was  considered  as  an 
insolent  invasion  of  the  Imperial  prerogative;  and  it 
became  the  duty  as  well  as  interest  of  every  Roman 
General  to  guard  the  frontiers  entrusted  to  his  care" — 
(Recklessly.)  "without  aspiring  for  conquests  which 
might  have  proved  no  less  fatal  to  himself  than  to  the 
vanquished  barbarians"  .  .  .  And  then  there's  another 
footnote.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  read  all  the 
footnotes  afterwards — what  do  you  think,  darling? 
Or  shall  we  take  them  as  they  come  ? 

Leonard:    (Without  opening  his  eyes.)    Yes,  dear. 

Eustasia:  Very  well.  This  is  footnote  5.  "Ger- 
manicus,  Suetonius  Paulinus  and  Agricola" — (She 
stumbles  over  the  names.) — "were  checked  and  recalled 
in  the  course  of  their  victories.  Corbulo  was  put  to 


84  The  Dover  Road 

death."  Oh,  what  a  shame !  "Military  merit,  as  it  is 
admirably  expressed  by  Tacitus,  was,  in  the  strictest 

sense  of  the  word "  well,  there  are  two  words,  and 

they  are  both  in  Latin.  I  suppose  Tacitus  wrote  in 
Latin.  But  it  doesn't  really  matter  because  it's  only 
a  footnote.  (Anxiously.)  Are  you  liking  the  book, 
darling? 

Leonard:    Very  much,  dear. 

Eustasia:  It's  nicely  written,  but  I  don't  think  it's 
very  exciting.  I  don't  think  Mr.  Latimer  has  a  very 
good  taste  in  books.  I  asked  him  to  recommend  me 
something  really  interesting  to  read  aloud,  and  he  said 
that  the  two  most  interesting  books  he  knew  were 
Carlyle's  "French  Revolution"  and — and — (Looking  at 
the  cover.)  Gibbon's  "Roman  Empires"  .  .  .  Fancy, 
there  are  four  volumes  of  it  and  six  hundred  pages  in 
a  volume.  We're  at  page  19  now.  (She  reads  a  line 
or  two  to  herself.)  Oh  now,  this  is  rather  interesting, 
because  it's  all  about  us.  "The  only  accession  which 
the  Roman  Empire  received  during  the  first  century 
of  the  Christian  era,  was  the  province  of  Britain." 
Fancy!  "The  proximity  of  its  situation  to  the  coast 
of  Gaul  seemed  to  invite  their  arms,  the  pleasing, 
though  doubtful  intelligence  of  a  pearl  fishery,  attracted 
their  avarice."  And  then  there's  a  footnote — I  suppose 
that's  to  say  it  was  Whitstable.  (Getting  to  it.) 
Oh  no — "The  British  pearls  proved  however,  of  little 
value,  on  account  of  their  dark  and  livid  colour." 
How  horrid.  "Tacitus  observes "  well,  then,  Taci- 
tus says  something  again  ...  I  irish  he  would  write 
in  English  .  .  .  Now  where  was  I  ?  Something  about 
the  pearls.  Oh,  yes.  "After  a  war  of  about  forty 
years — "  good  gracious! — "undertaken  by  the  most 
stupid,  maintained  by  the  most  dissolute,  end " 

(Nicholas  returns  with  his  pipe.) 


The  Dover  Road  85 

Nicholas:    Oh,  sorry,  I'm  interrupting. 

Leonard:  (Waking  up.)  No,  no.  Eustasia  was 
just  reading  to  me.  ( To  her.}  You  mustn't  tire  your- 
self, dear.  (To  Nicholas.)  Stay  and  talk. 

Nicholas:  What's  the  book?  Carlyle's  "French 
Revolution"  ? 

Eustasia:  (Primly.)  Certainly  not.  (Looking  at 
the  title  again.)  Gibbon's  "Roman  Empire." 

Nicholas:  Any  good? 

Eustasia:  Fascinating,  isn't  it,  Leonard? 

Leonard:  Very. 

Nicholas:  You  ought  to  try  Carlyle,  old  chap. 

Leonard:  Is  he  good? 

Nicholas:  (W ho  has  had  eight  pages  read  aloud  to 
him  by  Eustasia.)  Oh,  topping. 

Eustasia:  (Looking  at  her  watch.)  Good  gracious ! 
I  ought  to  be  dressing. 

Leonard:    (Looking  at  his.)    Yes,  it  is  about  time. 

Nicholas:     (Looking  at  his.)     Yes. 

Eustasia:  Leonard,  darling,  I  don't  think  it  would 
be  safe  for  you  to  change.  Not  tonight,  tomorrow  if 
you  like. 

Leonard:    I  say,  look  here,  you  said  that  last  night. 

Eustasia:  Ah,  but  your  temperature  has  gone  up 
again. 

Nicholas:  I  expect  that's  only  because  the  book 
was  so  exciting. 

Leonard:    Yes,  that's  right. 

Eustasia:  But  I  took  his  temperature  before  I  began 
reading. 

Nicholas:  Perhaps  yesterday's  instalment  was  still 
hanging  about  a  bit. 


86 


The  Dover  Road 


Eustasia:    (To  Leonard.}    No,  darling,  not  tonight. 
Just  to  please  his  Eustasia. 

Leonard:    (Sulkily.)    All  right. 
Eustasia:    That's  a  good  boy. 

(She  walks  to  the  door,  Nicholas  going  with 

her  to  open  it.) 

Leonard:    I  say,  don't  go,  old  chap.    You  can  change 
in  five  minutes. 
Nicholas:    Righto. 

(He  sees  Eustasia  out  and  comes  back.     There 
is  silence  for  a  little. ) 

Leonard:    I  say! 
Yes? 

(Thinking  better  of  it.)    Oh,  nothing. 
(After   a   pause.)      Curious   creatures, 


Nicholas: 
Leonard: 

Nicholas: 
women. 

Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
of  year. 

Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 

Nicholas: 
thought  of  Nice. 

Leonard:    Not  bad. 
Cannes  myself. 

Nicholas:    There's  not  much  in  it. 


Amazing. 

They're  so  unexpected. 

So  unreasonable. 

Yes  ... 

(Suddenly.)    I  hate  England  at  this  time 

So  do  I. 

Do  you  go  South  as  a  rule? 
As  a  rule. 
Monte? 
Sometimes.     We  had  thought — I  half 

We  were — I  think  I  prefer 


The  Dover  Road 


Leonard:  No  .  .  .  (After  a  pause.)  Between  our- 
selves, you  know — quite  between  ourselves — I'm  about 
fed  up  with  women. 

Nicholas:    Absolutely. 

You  are  too? 

Rather.    I  should  think  so. 
They're  so  dashed  unreasonable. 
So  unexpected  .  .  . 
(Suddenly.)      Had    you    booked    your 


Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 

Leonard: 
rooms? 

Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
door. ) 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard: 
Nicholas: 
Leonard  : 
Nicholas: 


At  Nice?    Yes. 

So  had  I. 

At  Cannes? 

Yes  .  .  .1  say,  what  about  it? 

Do  you  mean — (He  waves  a  hand  at  the 


Yes. 

Evaporating? 

Yes.    Quite  quietly,  you  know. 
Without  ostentation. 
That's  it. 

It's  rather  a  scheme.  And  then  we 
shouldn't  waste  the  rooms.  At  least,  only  one  set  of 
them.  I'll  tell  you  what.  I'll  toss  you  whether  we 
go  to  Nice  or  Cannes. 

Leonard:    Right.     (He  takes  out  a  coin  and  tosses.) 
Nicholas:    Tails. 

Leonard:    (Uncovering  the  coin.)    Heads.    Do  you 
mind  coming  to  Cannes? 

Nicholas:     Just  as  soon,  really.     When  shall  we 
go  ?     Tomorrow  ? 


88  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard:  Mightn't  get  a  chance  tomorrow.  Why 
not  tonight  ?  It  seems  a  pity  to  waste  the  opportunity. 

Nicholas:    You  mean  while  Eustasia's  dressing? 

Leonard:  The— er — opportunity.  Sleep  the  night 
at  Dover  and  cross  tomorrow  morning. 

Nicholas:    She'll  be  after  us. 

Leonard:    Nonsense. 

Nicholas:    My  dear  man,  you  don't  know  Eustasia. 

Leonard:    I  don't  know  Eustasia  ?    Well ! 

Nicholas:  (With  conviction.)  She'll  be  after  you 
like  a  bird.  You've  never  seen  Eustasia  when  she  has 
got  somebody  ill  to  look  after. 

Leonard:    I've  never  seen  Eustasia?    Well! 

Nicholas:  My  dear  chap,  you've  only  had  three  days 
of  her ;  I've  had  six  ...  Lord !  .  .  .  Look  here.  We 

shall  have  to 

(Enter  Latimer.) 

Latimer:    What,  Leonard,  all  alone? 

Nicholas:    I  say,  you're  the  very  man  we  want. 

Leonard:    (Frowning )    S'sh. 

Latimer:  Leonard,  don't  "s'sh"  Nicholas  when  he 
wants  to  speak  to  me. 

Nicholas:  (To  Leonard.)  It's  all  right  old  chap, 
Latimer  is  a  sportsman. 

Latimer:  (To  Leonard.)  There!  You  see  the  sort 
of  reputation  I  have  in  the  west  end.  (To  Nicholas.) 
What  is  it  you  want  to  do?  Run  away? 

Leonard:    Well— er 

Nicholas:    I  say,  however  did  you  guess? 

Latimer:  Leonard's  car  has  had  steam  up  for  the 
last  twenty-four  hours,  waiting  for  a  word  from  its 
owner. 

Leonard:    (Seeing  the  South  of  France.)    By  Jove! 


The  Dover  Road  89 

Latimer:    And  you  are  going  with  him,  Nicholas? 

Nicholas:  Yes.  Thought  I  might  as  well  be  getting 
on.  Very  grateful  and  all  that,  but  can't  stay  here  for 
ever. 

Latimer:  (Wondering  what  has  happened  between 
Nicholas  and  Anne. )  So  you  are  going  too.  I  thought 
— Well !  Nicholas  is  going  too. 

Leonard:  I  say,  you  do  understand — I  mean  about 
— er — I  mean,  when  I'm  quite  well  again — start  afresh 
and  all  that.  Cosset  her  a  bit.  But  when  you're  ill — 
or  supposed  to  be  ill — Well,  I  mean,  ask  Nicholas. 

Nicholas:    Oh,  rather. 

Latimer:  My  dear  Leonard,  why  these  explana- 
tions? Who  am  I  to  interfere  in  other  people's  matri- 
monial affairs?  You  and  Nicholas  are  going  away — 
good-bye.  (He  holds  out  his  hand.) 

Nicholas:  Yes,  but  what  about  Eustasia?  She's 
not  going  to  miss  the  chance  of  cosseting  Leonard 
just  when  she  is  getting  into  it.  She'll  be  after  him 
like  a  bird. 

Latimer:    I  see.    So  you  want  me  to  keep  her  here? 

Nicholas:    That's  the  idea,  if  you  could. 

Latimer:  How  can  I  keep  her  here  if  she  doesn't 
want  to  stay? 

Leonard:    Well,  how  do  you  keep  anybody  here? 

Latimer:  Really,  Leonard,  I  am  surprised  at  you. 
By  the  charm  of  my  old  world  courtesy  and  hospitality, 
of  course. 

Leonard:    Oh !    Well,  I  doubt  if  that  keeps  Eustasia. 

Latimer:  (Shaking  his  head  saidly.)  I  am  afraid 
that  that  is  only  too  true.  In  fact,  the  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  more  I  realise  that  there  is  only  one  thing 
which  will  keep  this  devoted  wife  from  her  afflicted 
and  suffering  husband. 


9O  The  Dover  Road 

Leonard  and  Nicholas:    What? 
(Dominic  comes  in.) 

Latimer:  His  lordship  and  Mr.  Nicholas  are  leaving 
at  once.  His  lordship's  car  will  wait  for  them  outside 
the  gates.  See  that  a  bag  is  packed  for  them. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 

Latimer:  And  come  back  when  you've  seen  about 
that. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Latimer:  The  car  can  return  for  the  rest  of  your 
luggage,  and  take  it  over  in  the  morning. 

Nicholas:    Good! 

Leonard:  Er — thanks  very  much.  (Anxiously.) 
What  were  you  going  to  say  about  the  only  way  of — 
er 

Latimer:  The  only  way  of  keeping  this  devoted 
wife  from  her  afflicted  and  suffering  husband? 

Leonard:    Yes.    What  is  it? 

Latimer:  Somebody  else  must  have  a  temperature. 
Somebody  else  must  be  ill.  Eustasia  must  have  some- 
body else  to  cosset. 

Nicholas:    I  say,  how  awfully  sporting  of  you! 

Latimer :    Sporting  ? 

Nicholas:    To  sacrifice  yourself  like  that. 

Latimer:  I?  You  don't  think  /  am  going  to  sacri- 
fice myself,  do  you  ?  No,  no,  it's  Dominic. 

Dominic:     (Coming  in.)     Yes,  sir. 

Latimer:    Dominic,  are  you  ever  ill? 

Dominic:  Never,  sir,  barring  a  slight  shortness  of 
the  breath. 

Latimer:  (To  the  others.)  That's  awkward.  I 
don't  think  you  can  cosset  a  shortness  of  the  breath.  J_ 


The  Dover  Road  91 

Nicholas:  (To  Dominic.}  I  say,  you  could  pretend 
to  be  ill,  couldn't  you? 

Dominic:    With  what  object,  sir? 
Nicholas :    Well — er 

Latimer:  Her  ladyship  is  training  to  be  a  nurse. 
She  has  already  cured  two  very  obstinate  cases  of  nasal 
catarrh  accompanied  by  debility  and  a  fluctuating  tem- 
perature. If  she  brings  one  more  case  off  successfully, 
she  earns  the  diploma  and  the  gold  medal  of  the  Royal 
Therapeutical  Society. 

Nicholas:    That's  right. 

Dominic:  And  you  would  wish  me  to  be  that  third 
case,  sir? 

Nicholas:    That's  the  idea. 

Dominic:  And  be  nursed  well  again  by  her  lady- 
ship? 

Latimer:    Such  would  be  your  inestimable  privilege. 
Dominic:    I  am  sorry,  sir.     I  must  beg  respectfully 
to  decline. 

Nicholas:    I  say,  be  a  sport. 

Leonard:  (Awkwardly.)  Of  course  we  should — 
Naturally  you  would  not  — er — lose  anything  by — er — 

Latimer:  His  lordship  wishes  to  imply  that  not  only 
would  your  mental  horizon  be  widened  during  the 
period  of  convalescence,  but  that  material  blessings 
would  also  flow.  Isn't  that  right,  Leonard? 

Nicholas:  A  commission  on  the  gold  medal.  Nat- 
urally. 

Dominic:  I  am  sorry,  sir.  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  see 
my  way, 


Nicholas:    I  say 

Latimer:     Thank  you,  Dominic. 


92  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:    Thank  you,  sir. 

(He  goes  out.) 

Nicholas:  Well,  that's  torn  it.  (To  Latimer.)  If 
you're  quite  sure  that  you  wouldn't  like  to  have  a  go  ? 
It's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  to  learn  all  about  the  French 
Revolution. 

Latimer:     Well,  well!       Something  must  be  done. 
(He  smiles  suddenly. )    After  all,  why  not  ? 
Leonard:    (Eagerly.)    You  will? 
Latimer:    I  will. 

Nicholas:    I  say 

Latimer:  (Waving  them  off.)  No.  no.  Don't 
wait.  Fly. 

Leonard:    Yes,  we'd  better  be  moving.     Come  on! 
Nicholas:     (With  a  grin,  as  he  goes.)     There's  an 

awfully  good  bit  in  the  second  chapter 

Latimer:  (Holding  up  a  linger.)  Listen!  I  hear 
her  coming. 

Leonard:    Good  Lord! 
(They  fly. 

Latimer  left  alone,  gives  himself  up  to  thought. 
What  illness  shall  he  have?  He  rings  one  of 
his  many  bells  and  Dominic  conies  in.) 

Latimer:  Oh,  Dominic.  In  consequence  of  your 
obstinate  good-health,  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  myself 
for — I  mean,  I  myself  am  going  to  embrace  this  great 
opportunity  of  mental  and  spiritual  development. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir.    Very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,  sir. 

Latimer:  What  sort  of  illness  would  you  recom- 
mend? 

Dominic:    How  atxnit  a  nice  sprained  ankle,  sir? 
Latimer:    You  think  that  would  go  well? 


The  Dover  Road  93 

Dominic:  It  would  avoid  any  interference  with  the 
customary  habits  at  meal-time,  sir.  There's  a  sort  of 
monotony  about  bread-and-milk;  no  inspiration  about 
it,  sir,  whether  treated  as  a  beverage  or  as  a  comestible. 

Latimer:    I  hadn't  thought  about  bread-and-milk. 

Dominic:  You'll  find  that  you  will  have  little  else  to 
think  about,  sir,  if  you  attempt  anything  stomachic. 
Of  course  you  could  have  the  usual  cold,  sir. 

Latimer:    No,  no,  not  that.    Let  us  be  original  .  .  . 

Dominic:  How  about  Xerostomia,  sir?  Spelt  with 
an  x. 

Latimer:    Is  that  good? 

Dominic:  Joseph  tells  me  that  his  father  has  had  it 
for  a  long  time. 

Latimer:  Oh !  Then  perhaps  we  oughtn't  to  deprive 
him  of  it. 

Dominic:  I  looked  it  up  in  the  dictionary  one  Sun- 
day afternoon,  sir.  They  describe  it  there  as  "an  abnor- 
mal dryness  of  the  mouth." 

Larimer:    I  said  I  wanted  to  be  original,  Dominic. 
Dominic:    Quite  so,  sir. 

(They  both  think  in  silence.} 
Eustasia:     (Off.)     Dominic!    Dominic! 
Dominic:     That  is  her  ladyship,  sir. 
Latimer:     Quick.      (Bustling  him  off.}     Don't  let 
her  come  in  for  a  moment.    I  must  assume  a  recumbent 
position. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 
(He  goes  out. 

Latimer  lies  down  at  full  length  on  the  sofa  and 
begins  to  groan;  putting  a  hand  first  on  his 
stomach,  then  on  his  head,  then  on  his  elbow. 
Eustasia  does  not  come.  He  cautiously 
raises  his  head;  the  room  is  empty.) 


94  The  Dover  Road 

Latimer:     (Disappointedly.)      Throwing  it  away! 
(He  hears  footsteps  and  settles  down  again.} 

(Anne  comes  in,  hat  on,  bag  in  hand.  She  is  just 
at  the  door  when  a  groan  reaches  her.  She 
stops.  Another  groan  comes.  She  puts  down 
her  bag  and  comes  towards  the  sofa  with  an 
"Oh!"  of  anxiety.} 

Latimer:    Oh,  my  poor — er — head!     (He  clasps  it.) 
Anne:     (Alarmed.)     What  is  it?     (She  kneels  by 
him.) 

Latimer:    Oh,  my — (Cheerfully.)     Hallo,  Anne,  is 
it  you?     (He  sits  up.) 
Anne:     (Still  anxious.)     Yes,  what  is  it? 
Latimer:     (Bravely.)     Oh,    nothing,    nothing.     A 
touch  of  neuralgia. 

Anne:    Oh!  ...  You  frightened  me. 
Latimer:    Did  I,  Anne?    I'm  sorry. 
Anne:    You  were  groaning  so.    I  thought — I  didn't 
know    what    had    happened  .  .  .   (Sympathetically.) 
Is  it  very  bad  ? 

Latimer:    Not  so  bad  as  it  sounded. 
Anne:    (Taking  off 'her  gloves.)    I  know  how  bad  it 
can  be.    Father  has  it  sometimes.    Then  I  have  to  send 
it  away.     (She  has  her  gloves  off  now.)     May  I  try? 
Latimer:    (Remorsefully.)    Anne! 

(She  leans  over  from  the  back  of  him  and  begins 
to  stroke  his  forehead  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers.    He  looks  up  at  her.} 
Anne:    Close  your  eyes. 
Latimer:    Ah,  but  I  don't  want  to  now. 

(She  laughs  without  embarrassment.) 
Anne:    It  will  go  soon. 
Latimer:    Not  too  soon  . 


The  Dover  Road  95 

^Anne:  Aren't  faces  funny  when  they're  upside 
down? 

Latimer:  You  have  the  absurdest  little  upside-down 
face  that  ever  I  saw,  Anne. 

Anne:     (Laughing  a  little.}     Have  I? 

Latimer:  Why  do  you  wear  a  hat  on  your  chin? 
(She  laughs.}  Why  do  you  wear  a  hat? 

Anne:    I  was  going  away. 

Latimer:     Without  saying  good-bye? 

Anne:    (Ashamed.}    I — I  think  so. 

Latimer:    Oh,  Anne! 

Anne:     (Hastily.}     I  should  have  written. 

Latimer:    A  post  card! 

Anne:    A  letter. 

Latimer:  With  many  thanks  for  your  kind  hospital- 
ity, yours  sincerely. 

Anne:    Yours  very  sincerely. 

Latimer:    P.  S.    I  shall  never  see  you  again. 

Anne:    P.  S.    I  shall  never  forget. 

Latimer:    Ah,  but  you  must  forget  .  .  . 

Anne:    (After  a  pause.}    Is  it  better? 

Latimer:  (Lazily.}  It  is  just  the  same.  It  will 
always  be  the  same.  It  is  unthinkable  that  anything 
different  should  ever  happen.  In  a  hundred  years  time 
we  shall  still  be  like  this.  You  will  be  a  little  tired, 
perhaps;  your  fingers  will  ache;  but  I  shall  be  lying 
here,  quite,  quite  happy. 

Anne:    You  shall  have  another  minute — no  more. 

Latimer:  Then  I  shall  go  straight  to  the  chemist, 
and  ask  for  three  pennyworth  of  Anne's  fingers. 

(They  are  silent  for  a  little.     Then  she  stops 
and  listens.} 

What  is  it? 


96  The  Dover  Road 

Anne:    I  heard  something.    Whispers. 
Latimer:    Don't  look  round. 

(Leonard  and  Nicholas  in  hats  and  coats  creep 
cautiously  in.  Very  noiselessly,  fingers  to 
lips,  they  open  the  front  door  and  creep  out.) 

Anne :    What  was  it  ?    Was  it 

Latimer:  An  episode  in  your  life.  Over,  buried, 
forgotten  .  .  . 

Anne:  (Softly.)  Thank  you.  (Suddenly  luith 
emotion.)  Oh,  I  do  thank  you. 

Latimer:  I  have  forgotten  what  you  are  thanking 
me  for. 

(Dominic  comes  in,  and  stops  suddenly  on  sec- 
ing  them.) 

Dominic:    Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 

Latimer:  Go  on,  Anne.  (Happily.)  I  am  having 
neuralgia,  Dominic. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  A  stubborn  complaint,  as  I  have 
heard,  sir. 

Latimer:  Miss  Anne  is  making  me  well  .  .  .  What 
did  you  want? 

Dominic:  Her  ladyship  says  will  you  please  excuse 
her  if  she  is  not  down  tonight. 

Latimer:  (To  Anne.)  Shall  we  excuse  her  if  she  is 
not  down  tonight? 

Dominic:  The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Joseph  is  taken  ill 
suddenly,  and 

Latitner:    ( To  himself. )    I  never  thought  of  Joseph ! 
Anne:    Oh,  poor  Joseph !    What  is  it? 

Dominic:  A  trifling  affection  of  the  throat,  but 
necessitating  careful  attention,  her  ladyship  says. 


The  Dover  Road  97 

Latimer:    Please  tell  her  ladyship  how  very  much  I 
thank  her  for  looking  after  Joseph  .  .  .  and  tell  Joseph 
how  very  sorry  I  am  for  him. 
Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Latimer:  You  can't  go  now,  Anne.  You  will  have 
to  stay  and  chaperone  Eustasia  and  me. 

(She  faighs  and  shakes  her  head.) 
Must  you  go  ? 

Anne:    Yes.    Tomorrow  morning. 
Latinier:    Back  to  your  father? 
Anne:    Yes. 

(He  looks  at  her,  and  nods.) 

Latimer:  Let  us  say  good-bye  now.  There  is  a 
magic  in  your  ringers  which  goes  to  my  head,  and  makes 
me  think  ridiculous  things.  Let  us  say  good-bye  now. 

Anne:  (Taking  his  hand.)  Good-bye.  (She  kisses 
his  hand  and  says)  I  wish  you  had  been  my  father. 
( Then  she  goes  out. ) 

(Mr.  Latimer  stands  there,  wondermg  how  he 
likes  this.  He  -walks  across  to  a  mirror  to 
have  a  look  at  himself.  While  he  is  there 
Dominic  comes  in  to  superintend  the  laying 
of  the  table  for  three.) 

Latimer:  (At  the  mirror.)  Dominic,  how  old 
would  you  say  I  was? 

Dominic:    More  than  that,  sir. 

Latimer:  (With  a  sigh.)  Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  am. 
And  yet  I  look  very  young.  Sometimes  I  think  I  look 
too  young. 

Dominic:    Yes,  sir. 

Latimer:  Miss  Anne  has  just  asked  me  to  be  her 
father. 


98  The  Dover  Road 

Dominic:    Very  considerate  of  her,  I'm  sure,  sir. 
Latimer:    Yes  .  .  .  To  prevent  similar  mistakes  in 
the  future,  I  think  I  shall  wear  a  long  white  beard. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir.  Shall  I  order  one  from  the 
stores  ? 

Latimer:    Please. 

Dominic:  Thank  you,  sir  ...  Is  Miss  Anne  re- 
turning tomorrow,  sir? 

Latimer:  Yes  .  .  .  don't  over-do  the  length,  Dom- 
inic, and  I  like  the  crinkly  sort. 

Dominic:  Yes,  sir  ...  One  of  our  most  successful 
weeks  on  the  whole  if  I  may  say  so,  sir. 

Latimer:     (thought/idly.)     Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 

(The  front  door  bell  rings.  With  a  little  start 
he  pulls  himself  together  and  goes  out,  saying 

as  he  goes )  Well,  well,  we  must  all  do 

what  we  can,  Dominic. 
Dominic:    That's  the  only  way,  isn't  it,  sir? 

(  The  room  is  now  just  as  we  saw  it  on  that  first 
night.  Dominic  draws  the  curtains  and  opens 
the  big  front  door.) 

A  Voice:  Oh — er — is  this — er — an  hotel?  My 
chauffeur  said — we've  had  an  accident,  been  delayed  on 
the  way — he  said  that 

(Evidently  another  romantic  couple.  Let  us 
leave  them  to  Mr.  Latimer.) 


THE 
TRUTH 
ABOUT 
BLAYDS 


CHARACTERS 

OLIVER  BLAYDS 

ISOBEL  His  Younger  Daughter 

MARION  BLAYDS-CONWAY  His  Eldest  Daughter. 

WILLIAM   BLAYDS-CONWAY  His  Son-in-Law. 

OLIVER  BLAYDS-CONWAY      )  His  Gmnachiiaren. 
SEPTIMA  BLAYDS-CONWAY    } 
A.  L.  ROYCE 
PARSONS 

Scene:    A  room  in  Oliver  Blayd's  house  in  Port 
man  Square. 

Act     I.     Afternoon. 

Act  II.     Morning,  four  days  later. 

Act  HI.     Afternoon,  three  days  later. 


100 


ACT  I 

A  solid  handsomely-furnished  room  in  a  house  in  Port- 
man  Square — solid  round  table,  solid  writing  desk, 
solid  chairs  and  sofa,  with  no  air  of  comfort,  but 
only  of  dignity.  At  the  back  is  a  painting  of  Oliver 
Blayds,  also  handsome  and  dignified  .  .  .  Oliver 
Blayds-Conway,  his  young  grandson,  comes  in 
u'ifh  Royce,  the  latter  a  clean-shaven  man  of  forty 
whose  thick  dark  hair  shows  a  touch  of  grey.  It 
is  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Oliver:  (As  he  comes  in.)  This  way.  (He  holds 
the  door  open  for  Royce.) 

Royce:     (Coming  in.)     Thanks. 

Oliver:  Some  of  the  family  will  be  showing  up  di- 
rectly. Make  yourself  comfortable.  (He  sits  in  one 
of  the  dignified  chairs.) 

Royce:  Thanks.  (He  looks  round  the  room  with 
interest  and  sees  the  picture  over  the  fireplace.) 
Hullo,  there  he  is. 

Oliver:    What?     (Bored.)     Oh,  the  old  'un,  yes. 

Royce:  (Reverently.)  Oliver  Blayds,  the  last  of 
the  Victorians. 

(Oliver     sighs     and     looks     despairingly     to 
Heaven. ) 

I  can't  take  my  hat  off  because  it's  off  already,  but 
I  should  like  to. 

Oliver:  Good  Lord,  you  don't  really  feel  like  that, 
do  you? 

101 


102        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:    Of  course.    Don't  you? 

Oliver:    Well,  hardly.    He's  my  grandfather. 

Royce:  True.  (Smiling.)  All  the  same,  there's 
nothing  in  the  Ten  Commandments  about  not  honour- 
ing your  grandfather. 

Oliver:  Nothing  about  honouring  'em  either.  It's 
left  optional.  Of  course,  he's  a  wonderful  old  fellow — 
ninety  and  still  going  strong;  but, — well,  as  I  say,  he's 
my  grandfather. 

Royce:  I'm  afraid,  Conway,  that  even  the  fact  of 
his  being  your  grandfather  doesn't  prevent  me  think- 
ing him  a  very  great  poet,  a  very  great  philosopher, 
and  a  very  great  man. 

Oliver:  (Interested.)  I  say,  do  you  really  mean 
that,  or  are  you  just  quoting  from  the  Address  you've 
come  to  present? 

Royce:  Well,  it's  in  the  Address,  but  then  I  wrote 
the  Address,  and  got  it  up. 

Oliver:  Yes,  I  know — you  told  me — To  Oliver 
Blayds  on  his  ninetieth  birthday :  Homage  from  some 
of  the  younger  writers.  Very  pretty  of  them  and  all 
that,  and  the  old  boy  will  love  it.  But  do  they  really 
feel  like  that  about  him — that's  what  interests  me. 
I've  always  thought  of  him  as  old-fashioned,  early  Vic- 
torian, and  that  kind  of  thing. 

Royce:  Oh,  he  is.  Like  Shakespeare.  Early  Eliza- 
bethan and  that  kind  of  thing. 

Oliver:  Shakespeare's  different.  I  meant  more  like 
Longfellow  .  .  .  Don't  think  I  am  setting  up  my 
opinion  against  yours.  If  you  say  that  Blayds'  poetry 
is  as  good  as  the  best,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it  Blayds 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        103 

the  poet,  you're  the  authority.    Blayds  the  grandfather, 
7  am. 

Royce:  All  right  then,  you  can  take  my  word  for 
it  that  his  best  is  as  good  as  the  best.  Simple  as  Words- 
worth, sensuous  as  Tennyson,  passionate  as  Swinburne. 

Oliver:  Yes,  but  what  about  the  modern  Johnnies? 
The  Georgians. 

Royce:  When  they're  ninety  I'll  tell  you.  If  I'm 
alive. 

Oliver:    Thanks  very  much. 

(There  is  a  short  silence.  Royce  leaves  the  pic- 
ture and  comes  slowly  towards  the  writing 
table.} 

Oliver:    (Shaking  his  head.}    Oh,  no! 
Royce:     (Turning  round.}    What? 

Oliver:  That's  not  the  table  where  the  great  mas- 
terpieces are  written,  and  that's  not  the  pen  they  are 
written  with. 

Royce:    My  dear  fellow 

Oliver:    Is  there  a  pen  there,  by  the  way? 

Royce:     (Looking.}     Yes.     Yours? 

Oliver:  The  family's.  You've  no  idea  how  difficult 
it  is  to  keep  pens  there. 

Royce:    Why,  where  do  they  go  to? 

Oliver:  The  United  States,  mostly.  Everybody 
who's  let  in  here  makes  for  the  table  sooner  or  later 
and  pinches  one  of  the  pens.  "Lands'  sake,  what  a 
head,"  they  say,  waving  at  the  picture  with  their  right 
hand  and  feeling  behind  their  back  with  the  left;  it's 
wonderful  to  see  'em.  Tim,  my  sister — Tim  and  I 
glued  a  pen  on  to  the  tray  once  when  one  of  'em  was 
coming,  and  watched  him  clawing  at  it  for  about  five 
minutes,  and  babbling  about  the  picture  the  whole  time. 


104       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

I  should  think  he  knew  what  the  poet  Blayds  looked 
like  by  the  time  he  got  the  pen  into  his  pocket. 

Royce:  (Going  back  to  the  picture.}  Well,  it's  a 
wonderful  head. 

Oliver:  Yes,  I  will  say  that  for  the  old  boy,  he  does 
look  like  somebody. 

Royce:    When  was  this  done? 

Oliver:    Oh,  about  eighteen  years  ago. 

Royce:    Yes.    That  was  about  when  I  met  him. 

Oliver:  You  never  told  me  you'd  met  him.  Did 
you  meet  me  by  any  chance? 

Royce:    No. 

Oliver:  I  was  five  then,  and  people  who  came  to  see 
Blayds  the  poet  patted  the  head  of  Blayds  the  poet's 
grandson  and  said :  "Are  you  going  to  be  a  poet  too, 
my  little  man,  when  you  grow  up*?" 

Royce:  (Smiling.}  And  what  did  Blayds  the  poet's 
grandson  say? 

Oliver:  Urged  on  by  Blayds  the  poet's  son-in-law 
Blayds  the  poet's  grandson  offered  to  recite  his  grand- 
father's well-known  poem  "A  Child's  Thoughts  on 
Waking."  I'm  sorry  you  missed  it,  Royce,  but  it's  no 
good  asking  for  it  now. 

Royce:  (Half  to  himself.}  It  was  at  Bournemouth. 
He  was  there  with  his  daughter.  Not  your  mother,  she 
would  have  been  younger  than  that. 

Oliver:    You  mean  Aunt  Isobel. 

Royce:  Isobel,  yes.  (After  a  little  silence.}  Isobel 
Blayds.  Yes,  that  was  eighteen  years  ago.  I  was 
about  your  age. 

Oliver:    A  fine  handsome  young  fellow  like  me? 

Royce:    Yes. 

Oliver:    Any  grandfathers  living? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        105 

Royce:    No. 

Oliver:  Lucky  devil.  But  I  don't  suppose  you  real- 
ised it. 

Royce:    No,  I  don't  think  I  realised  it 

Oliver:  (Thinking  it  out.)  I  suppose  if  I  had  a 
famous  father  I  shouldn't  mind  so  much.  I  should  feel 
that  it  was  partly  my  doing.  I  mean  that  he  wouldn't 
have  begun  to  be  famous  until  I  had  been  born.  But 
the  poet  Blayds  was  a  world-wide  celebrity  long  before 
I  came  on  the  scene,  and  I've  had  it  hanging  over  me 
ever  since  ....  Why  do  you  suppose  I  am  a  member 
of  the  club? 

Royce:  Well,  why  not?  It's  a  decent  club.  We  are 
all  very  happy  there. 

Oliver:    Yes,  but  why  did  they  elect  me? 

Royce:  Oh,  well,  if  we  once  began  to  ask  ourselves 
that 

Oliver:  Not  at  all.  The  answer  in  your  case  is  be- 
cause A.  L.  Royce  is  a  well-known  critic  and  a  jolly 
good  fellow.  The  answer  in  my  case  is  because  there's 
a  B.  in  both.  In  other  words,  because  there's  a  Blayds 
in  Blayds-Conway.  If  my  father  had  stuck  to  his 
William  Conway  when  he  got  married,  I  should  never 
have  been  elected.  Not  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  any- 
way. 

Royce:  Then  I'm  very  glad  he  changed  his  name. 
Because  otherwise,  it  seems,  I  might  not  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you. 

Oliver:  Oh,  well,  there's  always  a  something.  But 
compliments  aside,  it  isn't  much  fun  for  a  man  when 
things  happen  to  him  just  because  of  the  Blayds  in 
Blayds-Conway.  You  know  what  I  am  doing  now, 
don't  you?  I  told  you. 

Royce:    Secretary  to  some  politician,  isn't  it? 


106        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Oliver:  Yes.  And  why?  Because  of  the  Blayds 
in 

Royce:    Oh,  nonsense! 

Oliver:  It's  true.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  be  a 
private  secretary  to  a  dashed  politician  ?  What's  a  pri- 
vate secretary  at  his  best  but  a  superior  sort  of  valet? 
I  wanted  to  be  a  motor  engineer.  Not  allowed.  Why 
not?  Because  the  Blayds  in  Blayds-Conway  wouldn't 
have  been  any  use.  But  politicians  simply  live  on  that 
sort  of  thing. 

Royce:    What  sort  of  thing? 

Oliver:  Giving  people  jobs  because  they're  the 
grandsons  of  somebody. 

Royce:  Yes,  I  wonder  if  I  was  as  cynical  as  you 
eighteen  years  ago. 

Oliver:  Probably  not;  there  wasn't  a  Grandfather 
Royce.  By  the  way,  talking  about  being  jolly  good  fel- 
lows and  all  that,  have  you  noticed  that  I  haven't 
offered  you  a  cigarette  yet? 

Royce:    I  don't  want  to  smoke. 

Oliver:  Well,  that's  lucky.  Smoking  isn't  allowed 
in  here. 

Royce:  (Annoyed  by  this.)  Now  look  here,  Con- 
way,  do  you  mind  if  I  speak  plainly? 

Oliver:  Do.  But  just  one  moment  before  you  be- 
gin. My  name,  unfortunately  is  Blayds-Conway.  Call 
me  Conway  at  the  Club  and  I'll  thank  you  for  it.  But 
if  you  call  me  Conway  in  the  hearing  of  certain  mem- 
bers of  my  family,  I'm  afraid  there  will  be  trouble. 
Now  what  were  you  going  to  say? 

Royce:    (His  annoyance  gone.)    Doesn't  matter. 

Oliver:   No,  do  go  on,  Mr.  Blayds-Royce. 

Royce:  Very  well,  Mr.  Blayds-Conway.  I  am  old 
enough  to  be — no,  not  your  grandfather — your  uncle — 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        107 

and  I  want  to  say  this.  Oliver  Blayds  is  a  very  great 
man  and  also  a  very  old  man,  and  I  think  that  while 
you  live  in  the  house  of  this  very  great  man,  the  in- 
conveniences to  which  his  old  age  puts  you,  my  dear 
Conway 

Oliver:    Blayds-Conway. 

Royce:     (Smiling.)     Blayds-Conway,  I'm  sorry. 

Oliver:    Perhaps  you'd  better  call  me  Oliver. 

Royce:    Yes,  I  think  I  will.    Well,  then,  Oliver- 


0 liver:  Yes,  but  you've  missed  the  whole  point. 
The  whole  point  is  that  I  don't  want  to  live  in  his  house. 
Do  you  realise  that  I've  never  had  a  house  I  could  call 
my  own?  I  mean  a  house  where  I  could  ask  people. 
I  brought  you  along  this  afternoon  because  you'd  got 
permission  to  come  anyhow  with  that  Address  of  yours. 
But  I  shouldn't  have  dared  to  bring  anybody  else  along 
from  the  club.  Here  we  all  are,  and  always  have  been, 
living  not  our  lives,  but  his  life.  Because — well,  just 
because  he  likes  it  so. 

Royce:  (Almost  to  himself.)  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
I  know. 

Oliver:   Well! 

(Septima   Blayds-Conway   comes   in,    a   fair- 
haired    nineteen-year-old   modern,   with    no 
sentimental  nonsense  about  her.) 
Septima:    Hullo! 

Oliver:  (Half  getting  out  of  his  chair.)  Hullo, 
Tim.  Come  and  be  introduced.  This  is  Mr.  A.  L. 
Royce.  My  sister,  Septima. 

Royce:    (Mechanically  quoting.) 

"Septima,  seventh  dark  daughter; 
I  saw  her  once  where  the  black  pines  troop  to 

the  water — 
A  rock-set  river  that  broke  into  bottomless  pools 


io8       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Septima:  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Royce. 
(Holding  out  her  hand  to  Oliver.}  Noll,  I'll  trouble 
you. 

Oliver:  (Feeling  in  his  pockets.}  Damn!  I  did 
think  Royce — (He  hands  her  a  shilling.}  Here  you 
are. 

Septima:    Thanks.    Thank  you  again,  Mr.  Royce. 

Royce:    I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand. 

Septima:  It's  quite  simple.  I  get  a  shilling  when 
visitors  quote  "Septima"  at  me,  and  Noll  gets  a  shilling 
when  they  don't. 

Oliver:  (Reproachfully.}  I  did  think  that  you 
would  be  able  to  control  yourself,  Royce. 

Royce:  (Smiling.}  Sorry!  My  only  excuse  is 
that  I  never  met  anyone  called  Septima  before,  and  that 
it  came  quite  unconsciously. 

Septima:  Oh,  don't  apologise.  I  admire  you  im- 
mensely for  it.  It's  the  only  fun  I  get  out  of  the  name. 

Oliver:  Septima  Blayds-Conway,  when  you're  the 
only  daughter  and  fair  at  that — I  ask  you. 

Royce:    (Defensively.}    It's  a  beautiful  poem. 
Septima:    Have  you  come  to  see  Blayds  the  poet? 
Royce:    Yes. 

Oliver:    One  of  the  homage  merchants. 
Royce:    Miss  Blayds-Conway,  I  appeal  to  you. 

Septima:  Anything  I  can  do  in  return  for  your 
shilling 

Royce:  I  have  come  here  on  behalf  of  some  of  my 
contemporaries  in  order  to  acquaint  that  very  great 
man  Oliver  Blayds  with  the  feelings  of  admiration 
which  we  younger  writers  entertain  for  him.  It  ap- 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        109 

pears  now  that  not  only  is  Blayds  a  great  poet  and  a 
great  philosopher,  but  also  a 

Oliver:    Great  grandfather. 

Royce:  But  also  a  grandfather.  Do  you  think  you 
can  persuade  your  brother  that  Blayds'  public  reputa- 
tion as  a  poet  is  in  no  way  affected  by  his  private  repu- 
tation as  a  grandfather,  and  beg  him  to  spare  me  any 
further  revelations. 

Septima:  Certainly;  I  could  do  all  that  for  nine- 
pence,  and  you'd  still  be  threepence  in  hand.  {Sternly 
to  Oliver.)  Blayds-Conway,  young  fellow,  have  you 
been  making  r-revelations  about  your  ger-rand-father? 

Oliver:  My  dear  girl,  I've  made  no  r-revelations 
whatever.  What's  upset  him  probably  is  that  I  re- 
fused to  recite  to  him  "A  Child's  Thoughts  on  Wak- 
ing." 

Septima:    Did  he  pat  your  head  and  ask  you  to? 

Royce:    No,  he  didn't. 

Septima:  Well,  you  needn't  be  huffy  about  it,  Mr. 
Royce.  You  would  have  been  in  very  good  company. 
Meredith  and  Hardy  have,  and  lots  of  others. 

Oliver:  Well,  anyway,  I've  never  been  kissed  by 
Maeterlinck. 

Septima:  (Looking  down  coyly.)  Mr.  Royce,  you 
have  surprised  my  secret,  which  I  have  kept  hidden 
these  seventeen  years.  Materlinck — Maurice  and  I 

Royce:  Revelations  was  not  quite  the  word.  What 
I  should  have  said  was  that  I  have  been  plunged  sud- 
denly, and  a  little  unexpectedly,  into  an  unromantic 
matter-of-fact  atmosphere  which  hardly  suits  the  oc- 
casion of  my  visit.  On  any  other  day — you  see  what 
I  mean,  Miss  Septima. 

Septima:    You're  quite  right.     This  is  not  the  oc- 


no       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

casion  for  persiflage.  Besides  we're  very  proud  of  him 
really. 

Royce:    I'm  sure  you  are. 

Septima:  (Weightily.}  You  know,  Noll,  there  are 
times  when  I  think  that  possibly  we  have  misjudged 
Blayds. 

Oliver:    Blayds  the  poet  or  Blayds  the  man? 

Septima:  Blayds  the  man.  After  all,  Uncle  Thomas 
was  devoted  to  him,  and  he  was  rather  particular. 
Wasn't  he,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:  I  don't  think  I  know  your  Uncle  Thomas, 
do  I? 

Septima:    He  wasn't  mine,  he  was  Mother's. 

Oliver:    The  Sage  of  Chelsea. 

Royce:    Oh,  Carlyle.    Surely 

Septima:    Mother  called  them  all  "uncle"  in  her  day. 

Royce:  Well,  now,  there  you  are.  That's  one  of 
the  most  charming  things  about  Oliver  Blayds.  He  has 
always  had  a  genius  for  friendship.  Read  the  lives 
and  letters  of  all  the  great  Victorians,  and  you  find  it 
all  the  way.  They  loved  him.  They 

Oliver:  (Striking  up.)  God  save  our  gracious 
Queen ! 

Royce:    (With  a  good-humoured  shrug.)   Oh,  well, 
Septima:     Keep  it  for  Father  and   Mother,   Mr. 
Royce.    We're  hopeless.    Shall  I  tell  you  why? 
Royce:   Yes? 

Septima:  When  you  were  a  child,  did  you  ever  get 
the  giggles  in  church? 

Royce:  Almost  always — when  the  Vicar  wasn't 
looking. 

Septima:    There's  something  about  it,  isn't  there 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        in 

the   solemnity   of   it   all — which   starts   you   giggling. 
When  the  Vicar  isn't  looking. 

Royce:    Yes. 

Septima:     Exactly.     And  that's  why  we  giggle — 
when  the  Vicar  isn't  looking. 

Marion:     (Off.)     Septima! 

Oliver:    And  here  comes  the  Vicar's  wife. 

(Marion  Blayds-Conway  is  55  now.     A  dear 
foolish  woman,  who  has  never  got  over  the 
fact  that  she  is  Oliver  Blayds'  daughter,  but 
secretly  thinks  that  it  is  almost  more  wonder- 
ful to  be  William  Blayds-Conway  s  wife.) 
Marion:     Oh,   there  you  are.     Why  didn't  you — 
(She  sees  Royce.)     Oh! 
Oliver:    This  is  Mr.  A.  L.  Royce,  Mother. 
Marion:     (Distantly.)     How  do  you  do? 
Royce:    How  do  you  do? 

(There  is  an  awkward  silence.) 
Marion:    You'll  excuse  me  a  moment,  Mr — er — er 


Oliver:    Royce,  Mother,  A.  L.  Royce. 

Marion :  Septima ! — This  is  naturally  rather  a  busy 
day,  Mr. — er — We  hardly  expected — (She  frowns  at 
Oliver  who  ought  to  have  known  better  by  this  time.) 
Septima,  I  want  you  just  a  moment — Oliver  will  look 
after  his  friend.  I'm  sure  you'll  understand,  Mr — 
er 

Royce:    Oh,  quite.    Of  course. 

Septima:  Mr.  Royce  has  come  to  see  Grandfather, 
Mother. 

Marion:    (Appalled.)     To  see  Grandfather! 
Royce:     I   was  hoping — Mr.    Blayds-Conway  was 
good  enough  to  say 


U2        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Marion:  I  am  afraid  it  is  quite  impossible.  I  am 
very  sorry,  but  really  quite  impossible.  My  son 
shouldn't  have  held  out  hopes. 

Oliver:  He  didn't.  You're  barking  up  the  wrong 
tree,  Mother.  It's  Father  who  invited  him. 

Royce:  I  am  here  on  behalf  of  certain  of  my  con- 
temporaries  

Oliver:  Homage  from  some  of  our  younger  writ- 
ers  

Royce:  Mr.  Blayds  was  gracious  enough  to  indi- 
cate that 

Septima:  (In  a  violent  whisper.}  A.  L.  Royce, 
Mother ! 

Marion:    Oh!    Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.    Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  it  was  A.  L.  Royce,  Oliver?     Of  course! 
We  wrote  to  you. 
Royce:    Yes. 

Marion:  (All  hospitality.}  How  silly  of  me!  You 
must  forgive  me,  Mr.  Royce.  Oliver  ought  to  have 
told  me.  Grandfather — Mr.  Blayds — will  be  ready  at 
three-thirty.  The  doctor  was  very  anxious  that  Grand- 
father shouldn't  see  anyone  this  year — outside  the 
family,  of  course.  I  couldn't  tell  you  how  many  people 
wrote  asking  if  they  could  come  today.  Presidents  of 
Societies  and  that  sort  of  thing.  From  all  over  the 
world.  Father  did  tell  us.  Do  you  remember,  Sep- 
tima? 

Septima:  I'm  afraid  I  don't,  Mother.  I  know  I 
didn't  believe  it. 

Marion:  (To  Royce.}  Septima — after  the  poem, 
you  know.  "Septima,  seventh  dark  daughter — "(And 
she  would  quote  the  whole  of  it,  but  that  her  children 
interrupt.) 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        113 

Oliver:  (Solemnly.)  Don't  say  you've  never  heard 
of  it,  Royce. 

Septima:    (Distressed.}     I  don't  believe  he  has. 

Oliver:  (Encouragingly.}  You  must  read  it.  I 
think  you'd  like  it. 

Marion:  It's  one  of  his  best  known.  The  Times 
quoted  it  only  last  week.  We  had  the  cutting  "Sep- 
tinra,  seventh  dark  daughter — '  It  was  a  favourite  of 
my  husband's  even  before  he  married  me. 

Royce:  It  has  been  a  favourite  of  mine  for  many 
years. 

Marion:  And  many  other  people's,  I'm  sure.  We 
often  get  letters — Oh,  if  you  could  see  the  letters  we 
get! 

Royce:    I  wonder  you  don't  have  a  secretary. 

Marion:  (With  dignity.}  My  husband — Mr. 
Blayds-Conway — is  Grandfather's  secretary.  He  was 
appointed  to  the  post  soon  after  he  married  me. 
Twenty-five  years  ago.  There  is  almost  nothing  he 
mightn't  have  done,  but  he  saw  where  his  duty  lay,  and 
he  has  devoted  himself  to  Grandfather — to  Mr.  Blayds 
— ever  since. 

Royce:    I  am  sure  we  are  all  grateful  to  him. 

Marion:  Grandfather,  as  you  know,  has  refused  a 
Peerage  more  than  once.  But  I  always  say  that  if  de- 
votion to  duty  counts  for  anything,  William,  my  hus- 
band, ought  to  have  been  knighted  long  ago.  Perhaps 
when  Grandfather  has  passed  away —  But  there! 

Royce:  I  was  telling  Oliver  that  I  did  meet  Mr. 
Blayds  once — and  Miss  Blayds.  Down  at  Bourne- 
mouth. She  was  looking  after  him.  He  wasn't  very 
well  at  the  time. 

Marion:  Oh,  Isobel,  yes.  A  wonderful  nurse.  I 
don't  know  what  Grandfather  would  do  without  her. 


H4        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:  She  is  still — ?  I  thought  perhaps  she  was 
married,  or 

Marion:  Oh,  no!  Isobel  isn't  the  marrying  sort.  I 
say  that  I  don't  know  what  Grandfather  would  do 
without  her,  but  I  might  almost  say  that  I  don't  know 
what  she  would  do  without  Grandfather.  (Looking  at 
her  watch. )  Dear  me,  I  promised  Father  that  I  would 
get  those  letters  off.  Septima  dear,  you  must  help  me. 
Have  you  been  round  the  house  at  all,  Mr.  Royce  ? 

Royce:    No,  I've  only  just  come. 

Marion:  There  are  certain  rooms  which  are  shown 
to  the  public.  Signed  photographs,  gifts  from  Tenny- 
son, Ruskin,  Carlyle  and  many  others.  Illuminated 
addresses  and  so  on,  all  most  interesting.  Oliver,  per- 
haps you  would  show  Mr.  Royce — if  it  would  interest 
you 

Royce:    Oh,  indeed,  yes. 

Marion:    Oliver! 

Oliver:  (Throwing  down  the  book  he  was  looking 
at.)  Right.  (He  gets  up.)  Come  on,  Royce.  (As 
they  go  out.)  There's  one  thing  that  I  can  show  you, 
anyway. 

Royce:    What's  that? 

Oliver:      (Violently.)      My   bedroom.      We're   al- 
lowed to  smoke  there. 
( They  go  out. ) 

Marion:  (Sitting  down  at  the  writing-table.)  He 
seems  a  nice  man.  About  thirty-five,  wouldn't  you 
say — or  more  ? 

Septima:  Forty.  But  you  never  can  tell  with  men. 
(She  conies  to  the  table.) 

Marion:  (Getting  to  work.)  Now  those  letters 
just  want  putting  into  their  envelopes.  And  those  want 
envelopes  written  for  them.  If  you  will  read  out  the 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        115 

addresses,  dear — I  think  that  will  be  the  quickest  way — 
I  will 

Scptima:     (Thinking  her  own  thoughts.}     Mother! 

Marion:  Yes,  dear?  (Writing.)  Doctor  John 
Treherne. 

Septima:    I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

Marion:    Do  you  mean  about  anything  important? 

Scptima:    For  me,  yes. 

Marion:  You  haven't  annoyed  your  Grandfather, 
I  hope. 

Septima:    It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Grandfather. 

Marion:  Beechcroft,  Bexhill-on-Sea.  We've  been 
so  busy  all  day.  Naturally,  being  the  Birthday. 
Couldn't  you  leave  it  till  tomorrow,  dear? 

Septima:  (Eagerly.}  Rita  Ferguson  wants  me  to 
share  rooms  with  her.  You  know  I've  always  wanted 
to,  and  now  she's  just  heard  of  some;  there's  a  studio 
goes  with  it.  On  Campden  Hill. 

Marion:  Yes,  dear.  We'll  see  what  Grandfather 
says. 

Septima:  (Annoyed.)  I  said  that  this  has  nothing 
to  do  with  Grandfather.  We're  talking  about  me.  It's 
no  good  trying  to  do  anything  here,  and 

Marion:  There!  I've  written  Campden  Hill,  how 
stupid  of  me.  Haverstock  Hill.  We'll  see  what 
Grandfather  says,  dear. 

Septima:  (Doggedly.)  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
Grandfather. 

Marion:    (Outraged.)     Septima! 

Septima:  "We'll  see  what  Grandfather  says" — that 
has  always  been  the  answer  to  everything  in  this  house. 

Marion:  (As  sarcastically  as  she  can.)  You  can 
hardly  ha.ve  forgotten  who  Grandfather  is. 


n6       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Septima:    I  haven't. 

Marion:  What  was  it  the  Telegraph  called  him  only 
this  morning?  "The  Supreme  Songster  of  an  Earlier 
Epoch." 

Septima :  I  said  that  I  hadn't  forgotten  what  Grand- 
father is.  You're  telling  me  what  he  was.  He  is  an 
old  man  of  ninety.  I'm  twenty.  Anything  that  I  do 
will  affect  him  for  at  most  five  years.  It  will  affect 
me  for  fifty  years.  That's  why  I  say  this  has  nothing 
to  do  with  Grandfather. 

Marion:  (Distressed.}  Septima,  sometimes  you  al- 
most seem  as  if  you  were  irreligious.  When  you  think 
who  Grandfather  is — and  his  birthday  too.  (Weakly.) 
You  must  talk  to  your  Father. 

Septima:    That's  better.     Father's  only  sixty. 

Marion:  You  must  talk  to  your  Father.  He  will 
see  what  Grandfather  says. 

Septima:  And  there  we  are — back  again  to  ninety! 
It's  always  the  way. 

Marion:  (Plaintively.}  I  really  don't  understand 
you  children.  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  living  in  the 
house  of  such  a  great  man.  I  don't  know  what  Grand- 
father will  say  when  he  hears  about  it.  (Tearfully.} 
The  Reverend  William  Styles,  Hockly  Vicarage, 
Bishops  Stortford. 

Septima:  (Thoughtfully.}  I  suppose  Father  would 
cut  off  my  allowance  if  I  just  went. 

Marion:    Went? 

Septima:  Yes.  Would  he?  It  would  be  beastly  un- 
fair of  course,  but  I  suppose  he  would. 

Marion:    Septima,  you're  not  to  talk  like  that. 

Septima:  I  think  I'll  get  Aunt  Isobel  to  tackle 
Grandfather.  She's  only  forty.  Perhaps  she  could 
persuade  him. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        117 

Marion:  I  won't  hear  another  word.  And  you  had 
better  tidy  yourself  up.  I  will  finish  these  letters  my- 
self. 

Septima:  (Going  to  tlic  door.}  Yes,  I  must  go  and 
tidy  up.  (At  the  door.)  But  I  warn,  you  Mother,  I 
mean  to  have  it  out  this  time.  And  if  Grandfather — 
(She  breaks  off  as  her  Father  comes  in.)  Oh,  Lord! 
(She  comes  back  into  the  room,  making  ivay  for  him.) 
(William  Blayds-Conway  was  ofri'ionsly  meant 
for  the  Civil  Service.  His  prim  neatness,  his 
gold  pince-nez,  his  fussiness  ivould  be  invalu- 
able in  almost  any  Department.  However, 
running  Blayds  is  the  next  best  thing  to  run- 
ning the  Empire.) 

William :  What  is  it,  Septima  ?  Where  are  you  go- 
ing? 

Septima:    Tidy  myself  up. 

Wiliam:  That's  right.  And  then  you  might  help 
your  mother  to  entertain  Mr.  Royce  until  we  send  for 
him.  Perhaps  we  might — wait  a  moment 

Marion:  Oh,  have  you  seen  Mr.  Royce,  William? 
He  seems  a  nice  young  man,  doesn't  he?  I'm  sure 
Grandfather  will  like  him. 

William :  I  still  think  that  it  was  very  unwise  of  us 
to  attempt  to  see  anybody  today.  Naturally  I  made 
it  clear  to  Mr.  Royce  what  a  very  unexpected  departure 
this  is  from  our  usual  practice.  I  fancy  that  he  realises 
the  honour  which  we  have  paid  to  the  younger  school  of 
writers.  Those  who  are  knocking  at  the  door,  so  to 
speak. 

Marion:    Oh,  I'm  sure  he  does. 
Septima:    Does  anybody  want  me? 
William:    Wait  a  moment,  please.     (He  takes  a  key 
out  of  his  pocket  and  considers.)     Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 


n8        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

(He  gives  the  key  to  Septim-a.)  You  may  show  Mr. 
Royce  the  autograph  letter  from  Queen  Victoria,  on 
the  occasion  of  your  Grandmother's  death.  Be  very 
careful,  please.  I  think  he  might  be  allowed  to  take 
it  in  his  hands — don't  you  think  so,  Marion  ? — but  lock 
it  up  immediately  afterwards,  and  bring  me  back  the 
key. 

Septima:  Yes,  Father.  (As  she  goes.}  What  fun 
he's  going  to  have ! 

William:    Are  those  the  letters? 

Marion:    Yes,  dear,  I've  nearly  finished  them. 

William:  They  will  do  afterwards.  (Handing  her 
a  bunch  of  telegrams.}  I  want  you  to  sort  these  tele- 
grams. Isobel  is  seeing  about  the  flowers? 

Marion:  Oh,  yes,  sure  to  be,  dear.  How  do  you 
mean,  sort  them  ? 

William :  In  three  groups  will  be  best.  Those  from 
societies  or  public  bodies,  those  from  distinguished 
people,  including  Royalty — you  will  find  one  from  the 
Duchess  there ;  her  Royal  Highness  is  very  faithful  to 
us — and  those  from  unknown  or  anonymous  admirers. 

Marion:    Oh,  yes,  I  see,  dear.     (She  gets  to  work.} 

William:  He  will  like  to  know  who  have  remem- 
bered him.  I  fancy  that  we  have  done  even  better  than 
we  did  on  the  eightieth  birthday,  and  of  course  the  day 
is  not  yet  over.  (He  walks  about  arranging  things.} 

Marion:    Yes,  dear. 

William:  (Frowning  anxiously.}  What  did  we  do 
last  year  about  drinking  the  health?  Was  it  in  here, 
or  did  we  go  to  his  room? 

Marion:  He  was  down  to  lunch  last  year.  Don't 
you  remember,  dear? 

William:  Ah,  yes,  of  course.  Stupid  of  me.  Yes, 
this  last  year  has  made  a  great  difference  to  him.  He 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        119 

is  breaking  up,  I  fear.     We  cannot  keep  him  with  us 
for  many  more  birthdays. 

Marion:    Don't  say  that,  dear. 

William :    Well,  we  can  but  do  our  best. 

Marion:  What  would  you  like  to  do,  dear,  about 
the  health  ? 

William:     H'm.     Let  me  think.     (He  thinks.} 

Marion:  (Busy  with  the  telegrams.}  Some  of  these 
are  a  little  difficult.  Do  you  think  that  Sir  John  and 
Lady  Wilkins  would  look  better  among  the  distin- 
guished people  including  Royalty,  or  with  the  unknown 
and  anonymous  ones? 

William:  Anybody  doubtful  is  unknown.  I  only 
want  a  rough  grouping.  We  shall  have  a  general  ac- 
knowledgment in  the  Times.  And  oh,  that  reminds  me. 
I  want  an  announcement  for  the  late  editions  of  the 
evening  papers.  Perhaps  you  had  better  just  take  this 
down.  You  can  finish  those  afterwards. 

Marion:  Yes,  dear.  (She  gets  ready.}  Yes, 
dear? 

William:    Oliver  Blayds,  ninety  today. 

Marion:    (Writing.}    Oliver  Blayds,  ninety  today. 

William:  The  veteran  poet  spent  his  ninetieth  birth- 
day  

(To  herself.}     The  veteran  poet- 


William:    Passed  his  ninetieth  birthday — that's  bet- 
ter— passed   his   ninetieth  birthday  quietly,    amid  his 

family 

Amid  his  family- 


William:  At  his  well-known  house — residence — in 
Portman  Square.  (In  his  conversational  voice.)  We 
will  drink  the  health  in  here.  See  that  there  is  an  ex- 
tra glass  for  Mr.  Royce.  "In  Portman  Square" — have 
you  got  that  ? 


120       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Marion:    Yes,  dear. 

William:  Mr.  William  Blayds-Conway,  who  cour- 
teously gave — granted  our  representative  an  interview, 
informed  us  that  the  poet  is  in  good  health — It's  a 
pity  you  never  learnt  shorthand,  Marion. 

Marion:    I  did  try,  dear. 

William:    Yes,  I  know  ...  in  good  health 

Marion:    Good  health 

William:  And  keenly  appreciative  of  the  many 
tributes  of  affection  which  he  had  received. ' 

Marion:    Which  he  had  received. 

William:  Among  those  who  called  during  the  day 
were 

Marion:    Yes,  dear? 

William:  Fill  that  in  from  the  visitors'  book.  (He 
holds  out  his  hand  for  the  paper.)  How  does  that  go? 

Marion:  (Gizring  it  to  him.)  I  wasn't  quite  sure 
how  many  "p's"  there  were  in  appreciative. 

William:    Two. 

Marion:    Yes,  I  thought  two  was  safer. 

William:  (Handing  it  back  to  her.)  Yes,  that's  all 
right.  (Bringing  out  his  keys.)  I  shall  want  to  make 
a  few  notes  while  Mr.  Royce  is  being  received.  It 
may  be  that  Oliver  Blayds  will  say  something  worth 
recording.  One  would  like  to  get  something  if  it  were 
possible.  (He  has  unlocked  a  drawer  in  the  table  and 
brought  out  his  manuscript  book.)  And  see  that  that 
goes  off  now.  I  should  think  about  eight  names.  Say 
three  Society,  three  Artistic  and  Literary,  and  two 
Naval  Military  and  Political.  Perhaps  two  Society 
would  be  enough. 

Marion:  Yes,  dear.  (Beginning  to  make  for  the 
door.)  Will  there  be  anything  else  you'll  want? 
(Holding  out  the  paper.)  After  I've  done  this? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        121 

William:  (Considering.)  No.  ...  no  ....  I'm 
coming  with  you.  ( Taking  out  his  keys. )  I  must  get 
the  port.  ( William  opens  the  door  for  her  and  they  go 
out  together.) 

(The  room  is  empty  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Isabel  comes  in.  She  is  nearly  forty.  You 
can  see  how  lovely  she  was  at  twenty,  but  she 
gave  up  being  lovely  eighteen  years  ago,  said 
good-bye  to  Isabel,  and  became  just  Nurse. 
If  Blayds  wants  cheerfulness,  she  is  cheerful; 
if  sympathy,  sympathetic;  if  interest,  inter- 
ested. She  is  off  duty  now,  and  you  can  see 
how  tired  she  is.  But  she  has  some  spiritual 
comfort,  some  secret  pride  to  sustain  her,  and 
it  is  only  occasionally  that  the  tiredness,  the 
deadness,  shows  through.  She  has  flowers 
in  her  arms,  and  slowly,  thoughtfully,  she 
decks  the  room  for  the  great  man.  We  see 
now  for  a  moment,  that  she  is  much  older 
than  we  thought;  it  is  for  her  own  ninetieth 
birthday  thcit  she  is  decorating  the  room 
....  Now  she  has  finished,  and  she  sits 
down,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  waiting,  waiting 
patiently  ....  Some  thought  brings  a  wist- 
ful smile  to  her  mouth.  Yes,  she  must  have 
been  very  lovely  at  twenty.  Then  Royce 
comes  in.) 

Royce:  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  (He  sees  who  it 
is.)  Oh! 

Isabel:  It's  all  right,  I — Are  you  waiting  to  see — 
(She  recognises  him.)  Oh! 

(They  stand  looking  at  each  other,  about  six 
feet  apart,  not  moving,  saying  nothing.  Then 
very  gently  he  begins  to  hum  the  refrain  of 


122        The  Truth  About  Blayds 


a  waits.     You  can  see  that  she  is  remember- 
ing.) 

Isabel:    How  long  ago  was  it? 

Royce:     Eighteen  years. 

(Who  has  lived  fifty  years  since  then.}    So 


Isabel: 
little? 
Royce : 
Isabel: 
Royce: 
Isabel: 


(  Distressed. )     Isobel ! 
(Remembering  his  name  now.}     Austin. 
It  comes  back  to  you? 
A  few  faded  memories — and  the  smell  of 
the  pine  woods.    And  there  was  a  band,  wasn't  there  ? 
That  was  the  waltz  they  played.    How  did  it  go  ? 

(He  gives  her  a  bar  or  two  again.} 
(She  nods.}     Yes.     (She  whispers  the  tune  to  her- 
self.}    Why  does  that  make  me  think  of — Didn't  you 
cut  your  wrist?    On  the  rocks? 

Royce:    You  remember?     (He  holds  out  his  wrist.} 
Look! 

Isobel:     (Nodding.}     I  knew  that  came  into  it.     I 
tied  it  up  for  you. 

Royce:     (Sentimentally.}     I  have  the  handkerchief 
still.     (More  honestly.}     Somewhere  ...  I  know  I 
have  it.     (He  tries  to  think  where  it  would  be.} 
Isabel:    There  was  a  dog,  wasn't  there? 

Royce:     How  well  you  remember.     Rags.     A  fox 
terrier. 

Isobel: 
Royce: 
fore  that. 
Isobel: 
Royce: 
Isobel:  (Smiling.}  Thomas.  Yes  .  .  .  Only 


(Doubtfully.)    Yes? 

Or  was  that  later  ?    I  had  an  Aberdeen  be- 


Yes,  that  was  it,  I  think. 
Thomas. 
(Smiling.}       Thomas. 


eighteen  little  years  ago.  But  what  worlds  away.   Just 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        123 

give  me  that  tune  again.  (He  gives  it  to  her.}  You 
had  a  pipe  you  were  very  proud  of — with  a  cracked 
bowl — and  a  silver  band  to  keep  it  together.  What 
silly  things  one  remembers  .  .  .  you'd  forgotten  it. 

Royce:    I  remember  that  pink  cotton  dress. 

Isabel:  Eighty  years  ago.  Or  is  it  only  eighteen? 
And  now  we  meet  again.  You  married?  I  seem  to 
remember  hearing. 

Royce:  (Uncomfortably.}     Yes. 

Isabel:  I  hope  it  was  happy. 

Royce:  No.    We  separated. 

Isabel:  I  am  sorry. 

Royce:  Was  it  likely  it  would  be? 

Isabel:  (Surprised.}     Was  that  all  the  chance  of 

happiness  you  gave  her? 

Royce:    You  think  I  oughtn't  to  have  married? 
Isabel:    Oh,  my  dear,  who  am  I  to  order  people's 
lives? 

Royce:    You  ordered  mine. 

Isabel:  But  you  have  been  happy?  Marriage  isn't 
everything.  You  have  been  happy  in  your  work,  in 
your  books,  in  your  friends? 

Royce:  (After  thinking.}  Yes,  Isobel,  on  the 
whole,  yes. 

Isobel:  I'm  glad  .  .  .  (She  holds  out  her  hand  sud- 
denly with  a  smile.}  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Royce? 
(She  is  inviting  him  to  step  off  the  sentimental  foot- 
ing.) 

Royce:  (Stepping  off.}  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Blayds.  It's  delightful  to  meet  you  again. 

Isobel:    Let's  sit  down,  shall  we? 
(They  sit  down  together.} 


124       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

My  Father  will  be  coming  in  directly.  You  are  here 
to  see  him,  of  course? 

Royce:  Yes.  Tell  me  about  him — or  rather  about 
yourself.  You  are  still  looking  after  him? 

Isabel:    Yes. 

Royce:    For  eighteen  years. 

Isabel:    Nearly  twenty  altogether. 

Royce:    And  has  it  been  worth  it? 

Isabel:  He  has  written  wonderful  things  in  those 
twenty  years.  Not  very  much,  but  very  wonderful. 

Royce:  Yes,  that  has  always  been  the  miracle  about 
him,  the  way  he  has  kept  his  youth.  And  the  fire  and 
spirit  of  youth.  You  have  helped  him  there. 

Isabel:    (Proudly.)    Has  it  been  worth  it? 

Royce:  (Puzzled.}  I  don't  know.  It's  difficult  to 
say.  The  world  would  think  so;  but  I — naturally  I 
am  prejudiced. 

Isabel:    Yes. 

Royce:  (Smiling.)  You  might  have  looked  after 
me  for  those  eighteen  years. 

Isabel:  Did  you  want  it  as  much  as  he?  (As  he 
protests.)  No,  I  don't  mean  "want"  it — need  it. 

Royce:  Well,  that's  always  the  problem,  isn't  it — 
whether  the  old  or  the  young  have  the  better  right  to 
be  selfish.  We  both  needed  you,  in  different  ways.  You 
gave  yourself  to  him,  and  he  has  wasted  your  life,  I 
don't  think  /  should  have  wasted  it. 

Isabel:  I  am  proud  to  have  Helped  him.  No  one 
will  know.  Everything  which  he  wrote  will  be  his. 
Only  /  shall  know  how  much  of  it  was  mine.  Well, 
that's  something.  Not  wasted. 

Royce:    Sacrificed. 

Isabel:    Am  I  to  regret  that? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        125 

Roycef    Do  you  regret  it? 

Isabel:  (After  considering.}  When  you  asked  me 
to  marry  you  I — I  couldn't.  He  was  an  old  man  then ; 
he  wanted  me,  I  was  everything  to  him.  Oh,  he  has 
had  his  friends,  more  friends  than  any  man,  but  he 
had  to  be  the  head  of  a  family  too,  and  without  me 
—I've  kept  him  alive,  active.  He  has  sharpened  his 
brains  on  me.  (With  a  shrug.}  On  whom  else? 

Royce:    Yes,  I  understand  that. 

Isabel:  You  wouldn't  have  married  me  and  come  to 
live  with  us  all,  as  Marion  and  William  have  done? 

Royce:    No,  no,  that's  death. 

Isabel:  Yes,  I  knew  you  felt  like  that.  But  I 
couldn't  leave  him. 

(Royce  shrugs  his  shoulders  unconvinced.} 

Oh,  I  did  love  you  then,  I  did  want  to  marry  you! 
But  I  couldn't.  He  wasn't  just  an  ordinary  man — you 

must  remember  that,  please.     He  was  Blayds 

Oh,  what  are  we  in  the  world  for  but  to  find  beauty, 
and  who  could  find  it  as  he,  and  who  could  help  him 
as  I? 

Royce:    I  was  ready  to  wait. 

Isabel:  Ah,  but  how  could  we?  Until  he  died! 
Every  day  you  would  be  thinking,  "I  wonder  how  he 
is  today,"  and  I  should  be  knowing  that  you  were 
thinking  that.  Oh,  horrible!  Sitting  and  waiting  for 
his  death. 

Royce:  (Thoughtfully,  recognising  her  point  of 
view.}  Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  But  if  you  were  back 
now,  knowing  what  you  know,  would  you  do  it  again  ? 

Isabel:  I  think  so.  I  think  it  has  been  worth  it. 
It  isn't  fair  to  ask  me.  I'm  glad  now  that  I  have  given 
him  those  eighteen  years,  but  perhaps  I  should  have 
been  afraid  of  it  if  I  had  known  it  was  to  be  as  long 


126       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

as  that.  It  has  been  trying,  of  course — such  a  very  old 
man  in  body,  although  so  young  in  mind — but  it  has  not 
been  for  an  old  man  that  I  have  done  it ;  not  for  a  selfish 
Father ;  but  for  the  glorious  young  poet  who  has  never 
grown  up,  and  who  wanted  me. 

Royce:  (Looking  into  her  soul.}  But  you  have  had 
your  bad  moments. 

Isobel:     (Distressed.}     Oh,  don't!    It  isn't  fair. 
(Royce,  his  eyes  still  on  her,  begins  the  refrain 
again. ) 

Isobel:  (Smiling  sadly.}  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Royce! 
That's  all  over.  I'm  an  old  woman  now. 

Royce:  (Rather  ashamed.}  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  Yes, 
you're  older  now. 

Isobel:    Twenty  and  thirty-eight — there's  a  world  of 
difference  between  them. 
Royce:    I'm  forty. 

Isobel:  (Smiling.}  Don't  ask  me  to  pity  you. 
What's  forty  to  a  man? 

Royce:  You're  right.  In  fact  I'm  masquerading 
here  today  as  one  of  the  younger  writers. 

Isobel:  Father  likes  to  feel  that  he  is  admired  by 
the  younger  writers.  So  if  you've  brought  all  their 
signatures  with  you,  he'll  be  pleased  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Royce.  I  had  better  give  you  just  one  word  of  warn- 
ing. Don't  be  too  hard  on  the  1863  volume. 

Royce:    I  shan't  even  mention  it. 

Isobel:  But  if  he  does — ?  It  has  been  attacked  so 
much  that  he  has  a  sort  of  mother  love  for  it  now,  and 
even  I  feel  protective  towards  it,  and  want  to  say, 
"Come  here,  darling,  nobody  loves  you."  Say  some- 
thing kind  if  you  can.  Of  course  I  know  it  isn't  his 
best,  but  when  you've  been  praised  as  much  as  he,  the 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        127 

little  praise  which  is  with-held  is  always  the  praise  you 
want  the  most. 

Royce:    How  delightfully  human  that  sounds.   That 
is  just  what  I've  always  felt  in  my  own  small  way. 
(William  comes  fussily  in.} 

William:  Is  Mr.  Royce — ?  Ah,  there  you  are! 
(Looking  round  the  room.}  You've  done  the  flowers, 
Isobel  ?  That's  right.  Well,  Mr.  Royce,  I  hope  they've 
been  looking  after  you  properly. 

Royce:    Oh,  yes,  thanks. 

William:  That's  right.  Isobel,  (Looking  at  his 
watch) — in  five  minutes  shall  we  say? 

Isobel:    Yes. 

William:    How  is  he  just  now? 

Isobel:    He  seems  better  today. 

William:  That's  right.  We  shall  drink  the  health 
in  here. 

Isobel:    Very  well. 
(She  goes  out.) 

William:    A  little  custom  we  have,  Mr.  Royce. 

Royce:    Oh,  yes. 

irilliam:  We  shall  all  wish  him  many  happy  re- 
turns of  the  day — you  understand  that  he  isn't  dressed 
now  until  the  afternoon — and  then  I  shall  present  you. 
After  that  we  shall  all  drink  the  health — you  will  join 
us,  of  course. 

Royce:    (Smiling.)     Certainly. 

William:  Then,  of  course,  it  depends  how  we  are 
feeling.  We  may  feel  in  the  mood  for  a  little  talk,  or 
we  may  be  too  tired  for  anything  more  than  a  few 
words  of  greeting.  You  have  the  Address  with  you? 

Royce:  Yes.  (Looking  about  him.)  At  least  I 
put  it  down  somewhere. 


128       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

William:  (Scandalised.}  You  put  it  down — some- 
where! My  dear  Mr.  Royce,  (He  looks  about  anx- 
iously}— at  any  moment  now — (He  looks  at  his 
watch.)  Perhaps  I'd  better — 

(A  Maid  comes  in  with  the  port  and  glasses.} 

Parsons,  have  you  seen  a — (He  makes  vague  rectan- 
gular shapes  with  his  hands.} 

Royce:    Here  it  is. 

William:  Ah,  that's  right.  (As  the  Maid  puts  the 
tray  down.}  Yes,  there  I  think,  Parsons.  How  many 
glasses  have  you  brought  ? 

Parsons:    Seven,  sir. 

William:  There  should  be  six.   One — two — three — 

Parsons:    Madam  said  seven,  sir. 

William:  Seven,  yes,  that's  right.  When  I  ring  the 
bell,  you'll  tell  Miss  Isobel  that  we  are  ready. 

Parsons:    Yes,  sir. 

(She  goes  out,  making  way  for  Marion,  Sep~ 
tima  and  Oliver  as  she  does  so.} 

William:    Ah,  that's  right.     Now  then,  let  me  see 
,  I  think — Marion,   will  you  sit  here?     Septima, 
you   there,    Oliver — Oliver,   that's   a   very   light   suit 
you're  wearing. 

Oliver:    It's  a  birthday,  Father,  not  a  funeral. 

William:  (With  dignity.}  Yes,  but  whose  birth- 
day? Well,  it's  too  late  now — you  sit  there.  Mr. 
Royce,  you  sit  next  to  me  so  that  I  can  take  you  up. 
Now  are  we  all  ready? 

Septima:  (Wickedly.}  Wait  a  moment.  (She 
blows  her  nose.}  Right. 

William:  All  ready?  (He  rings  the  bell  with  an 
air.} 

(There  is  a  solemn  silence  of  expectation.  Then 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        129 

Oliver  shifts  a  leg  and  catches  his  ankle 
against  Septima's  chair. ) 
Oliver:    Damn!    Oo!     (He  rubs  his  ankle.) 
William:    S'sh! 

(There  is  another  solemn  silence  and  then  th? 
Maid  opens  the  door.    Blayds  in  an  invalid 
chair  is  wheeled  in  by  Isabel.    They  all  stand 
up.     With  his   long   white   beard,   his  still 
plentiful  white  hair  curling  over  his  ears, 
Oliver  Blayds  does  indeed  "look  like  some- 
body."    Only  his  eyes,  under  their  shaggy 
brows,  are  still  young.     Indomitable  spirit 
and  humour  gleam  in  them.    With  all  the  dig- 
nity, majesty  even,  which  he  brings  to  the 
part,  you  feel  that  he  realises  wliat  great  fun 
it  is  being  Oliver  Blayds.) 
Blayds:     Good  day  to  you  all. 
Marion:      (Going  forward  and  kissing   his  fore- 
head.)    Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  Father. 

Blayds:  Thank  you,  Marion.  Happy,  I  hope;  many, 
I  neither  expect  nor  want. 

(  William,  who  is  fust  going  forward,  stops  for 
a  moment  to  jot  this  down  on  his  shirt  cuff. 
Then,  beckoning  to  Royce  to  follow  him,  he 
approaches. ) 

William:    My  heartiest  congratulations,  sir. 
Blayds:     Thank   you,    William.      When   you   are 
ninety,  I'll  do  as  much  for  you. 

William:  (Laughing  heartily.)  Ha,  ha!  Very 
good,  sir.  May  I  present  Mr.  A.  L.  Royce  the  well- 
known  critic. 

Blayds:  (Looking  thoughtfully  at  Royce.)  We 
have  met  before,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:    At  Bournemouth,  sir.    Eighteen  years  ago. 


130        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Blayds:     (Nodding.}     Yes.     I  remember. 

William:    Wonderful,  wonderful! 

Blayds:  (Holding  out  his  hand.)  Thank  you  for 
wasting  your  time  now  on  an  old  man.  You  must 
stay  and  talk  to  me  afterwards. 

Royce:    It's  very  kind  of  you,  sir.     I 

William:  Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Royce.  (He  indi- 
cates Septima  and  Oliver.} 

Royce:  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  {He  steps  on  one 
side. } 

William:     (In  a  whisper.}     Septima. 

Septima:  (Coming  forward.}  Congratulations, 
Grandfather.  (She  bends  her  head,  and  he  kisses  her.} 

Blayds:  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  don't  know  what 
I've  done,  but  thank  you. 

Oliver:  (Coming  forward.}  Congratulations, 
Grandfather.  (He  bends  down  and  Blayds  puts  a  hand 
on  his  head.} 

Blayds:  Thank  you,  my  boy,  thank  you.  (Wist- 
fully.} I  was  your  age  once. 

(William  who  has  been  very  busy  pouring  out 
port  now  gets  busy  distributing  it.  When 
they  are  all  ready  he  holds  up  his  glass.} 

William:    Are  we  all  ready? 
(They  are.} 

Blayds ! 

All:    Blayds! 

(They  drink.} 

Blayds:  (Moved  as  always  by  this.}  Thank  you, 
thank  you.  (Recovering  himself.}  Is  that  the  Jubilee 
port,  William? 

William:    Yes,  sir. 

Blayds:     (Looking  wistfully  at  Isobel.}     May  I? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        131 

Isabel:    Yes,  dear,  if  you  like.    William 

William:  (Anxiously.*)  Do  you  think — ?  (She 
nods  and  he  pours  out  a  glass.)  Here  you  are,  sir. 

Blayds:  (Taking  it  in  rather  a  shaky  hand.)  Mr. 
Royce,  I  will  drink  to  you;  and,  through  you,  to  all 
that  eager  youth  which  is  seeking,  each  in  his  own  way, 
for  beauty.  (He  raises  his  glass.)  May  they  find  it 
at  the  last!  (He  drinks.) 

Royce:  Thank  you  very  much,  sir.  I  shall  remem- 
ber. 

William:  Allow  me,  sir.  (He  recovers  Blayds' 
glass.)  Marion,  you  have  business  to  attend  to? 
Oliver —  ?  Septima —  ? 

Marion:  Yes,  dear.  (Cheerfully  to  Blayds.)  We're 
going  now,  Grandfather. 

Blayds:  (Nodding.)  I  shall  talk  a  little  to  Mr. 
Royce. 

Marion:  That's  right,  dear,  don't  tire  yourself. 
Come  along,  children. 

(Oliver  comes  along.    Septima  hesitates.    She 
"means  to  have  it  out  this  time.") 

Septima:     (Irresolutely.)     Grandfather 

Blayds:    Well? 
Marion:    Come  along,  dear. 

Septima:  (Over-awed  by  the  majesty  of  Blayds.) 
Oh— all  right. 

( The  Three  of  them  go  out. ) 

William:  (In  a  whisper  to  Royce.)  The  Address? 
(  To  Blayds. )  Mr.  Royce  has  a  message  of  congratula- 
tion from  some  of  the  younger  writers,  which  he  wishes 

to  present  to  you,  sir.     Mr.  Royce 

(Royce  comes  forward  with  it.) 
Blayds:    It  is  very  good  of  them. 


132        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:     (Doubtfully.}      Shall  I  read  it,  sir? 
Blayds:     (Smiling.)     The  usual  thing? 
Royce:    (Smiling  too.)     Pretty  much.    A  little  bet- 
ter than  usual,  I  hope,  because  I  wrote  it. 

(William  is  now  at  the  writing-table,  waiting 
hopefully  for  crumbs.) 

Blayds:  (Holding  out  his  hand.)  Give  it  to  me. 
And  sit  down,  please.  Near  me.  I  don't  hear  too 
well.  (He  takes  the  book  and  glances  at  it.)  Pretty. 
(He  glances  at  some  of  the  names  and  says,  with  a 
pleased  smile.)  I  didn't  think  they  took  any  interest 
in  an  old  man.  Isobel,  you  will  read  it  to  me  after- 
wards, and  tell  me  who  they  all  are? 

Isobel:    Yes,  dear. 

Blayds:    Will  that  do,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:  Of  course,  sir  .  .  .  I  should  just  like  you  to 
know,  to  have  the  privilege  of  telling  you  here,  and  on 
this  day,  that  every  one  of  us  there  has  a  very  real  ad- 
miration for  your  work  and  a  very  real  reverence  for 
yourself.  And  we  feel  that  in  signing,  we  have  done 
honour  to  ourselves,  rather  than  honour  to  Blayds, 
whom  no  words  of  ours  can  honour  as  his  own  have 
done. 

Blayds:  Thank  you  .  .  .  You  must  read  it  to  me, 
Isobel.  (He  gives  her  the  book.)  A  very  real  ad- 
miration for  all  my  work,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:    Yes,  sir. 

Blayds:    Except  the  1863  volume? 

Royce:    I  have  never  regretted  that,  sir. 

Blayds:    (Pleased.)     Ah!    You  hear,  Isobel? 

Royce:  I  don't  say  that  it  is  my  own  favourite,  but 
I  could  quite  understand  if  it  were  the  author's.  There 
are  things  about  it 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        133 

Blayds:    Isobel,  are  you  listening? 

Isabel:    (Smiling.}    Yes,  Father. 

Roycc:  Things  outside  your  usual  range,  if  I  may 
say  so 

Blayds:  (Nodding  and  chuckling.}  You  hear,  Iso- 
bel ?  Didn't  I  always  tell  you  ?  Well,  well,  we  mustn't 
talk  any  more  about  that  .  .  .  William! 

William:     (Jumping  up.}     Sir? 

Blayds:    What  are  you  doing? 

William :    Just  finishing  off  a  few  letters,  sir. 

Blayds:  Would  you  be  good  enough  to  bring  me  my 
Sordello. 

William:    The  one  which  Browning  gave  you,  sir? 

Blayds:  Of  course.  I  wish  to  show  Mr.  Royce  the 
inscription — (To  Royce.) — an  absurd  one,  all  rhymes 
to  Blayds.  It  will  be  in  the  library  somewhere,  it  may 
have  got  moved. 

William:    Certainly,  sir. 

Isobel:    Father 

Blayds:  (Holding  up  a  hand  to  stop  her.)  Thank 
you,  William. 

(William  goes  out.) 
You  were  saying,  Isobel? 

Isobel:  Nothing.  I  thought  it  was  in  your  bedroom. 
I  was  reading  to  you  last  night. 

Blayds:  (Sharply.)  Of  course  it's  in  my  bedroom. 
But  can't  I  get  my  son-in-law  out  of  the  room  if  I  want 
to? 

Isobel:  (Soothingly.)  Of  course,  dear.  It  was  silly 
of  me. 

Blayds:  My  son-in-law,  Mr.  Royce,  meditates  after 
my  death  a  little  book  called  "Blaydsiana."  He  hasn't 
said  so,  but  I  see  it  written  all  over  him.  In  addition, 


134        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

you  understand,  to  the  official  life  in  two  volumes. 
There  may  be  another  one  called  "On  the  Track  of 
Blayds  in  the  Cotswolds"  but  I  am  not  certain  of  this 
yet.  (He  chuckles  to  himself.} 

Isabel:    (Reproachfully.}    Father! 

Blayds:  (Apologetically.}  All  right,  Isobel.  Mr. 
Royce  won't  mind. 

Isobel:    (Smiling  reluctantly.)     It's  very  unkind. 

Blayds:  (After  chuckling  to  himself  again.}  You 
never  knew  Whistler,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:    No,  sir,  he  was  a  bit  before  my  time. 

Blayds:  Ah,  he  was  the  one  to  say  unkind  things. 
But  you  forgave  him  because  he  had  a  way  with  him. 
And  there  was  always  the  hope  that  when  he  had  fin- 
ished with  you,  he  would  say  something  still  worse 
about  one  of  your  friends.  (He  chuckles  to  himself 
again.}  I  sent  him  a  book  of  mine  once — which  one 
was  it,  Isobel? 

Isobel:    Helen. 

Blayds:  Helen,  yes.  I  got  a  postcard  from  him  a 
few  days  later,  "Dear  Oliver,  rub  it  out  and  do  it 
again."  Well,  I  happened  to  meet  him  the  next  day, 
and  I  said  that  I  was  sorry  I  couldn't  take  his  advice, 
as  it  was  too  late  now  to  do  anything  about  it.  "Yes," 
said  Jimmie,  "as  God  said  when  he'd  made  Swinburne." 

Isobel:    You've  heard  that,  Mr.  Royce? 
Royce:    No.    Ought  I  to  have? 
Isabel:    It  has  been  published. 
Blayds:     (Wickedly.}     I  told  my  son-in-law.    Any- 
thing which  I  tell  my  son-in-law  is  published. 

Isobel:  (  To  Royce. }  I  always  say  that  Father  made 
it  up. 

Blayds:    You  didn't  know  Jimmie,  my  dear.    There 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        135 

was  nothing  he  couldn't  have  said.     But  a  most  stimu- 
lating companion. 

Royce:    Yes,  he  must  have  been. 

Blayds:  So  was  Alfred.  He  had  a  great  sense  of 
humour.  All  of  us  who  knew  him  well  knew  that. 

Royce:  It  is  curious  how  many  people  nowadays 
regard  Tennyson  as  something  of  a  prig,  with  no  sense 
of  humour.  I  always  feel  that  his  association  with 
Queen  Victoria  had  something  to  do  with  it.  A  court 
poet  is  so  very  un-stimulating. 

Blayds:  I  think  you're  right.  It  was  a  pity.  (He 
chuckles  to  himself.  Royce  waits  expectantly.)  I  went 
to  Court  once. 

Royce :     ( Surprised. )     You  ? 

Blayds:  (Nodding.)  Yes,  I  went  to  Osborne  to 
see  the  Queen.  Alfred's  doing  I  always  suspected,  but 
he  wouldn't  own  to  it.  (He  chuckles.) 

Isabel:    Tell  him  about  it,  dear. 

Blayds:  I  had  a  new  pair  of  boots.  They  squeaked. 
They  squeaked  all  the  way  from  London  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  The  Queen  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  end 
of  a  long  room.  I  squeaked  in.  I  bowed.  I  squeaked 
my  way  up  to  her.  We  talked.  I  was  not  allowed  to 
sit  down  of  course;  I  just  stood  shifting  from  one  foot 
to  the  other — and  squeaking.  She  said:  "Don't  you 
think  Lord  Tennyson's  poetry  is  very  beautiful?"  and 
I  squeaked  and  said,  "Damn  these  boots."  A  gentle- 
man-in-waiting  told  me  afterwards  that  it  was  contrary 
to  etiquette  to  start  a  new  topic  of  conversation  with 
Royalty — so  I  suppose  that  that  is  why  I  have  never 
been  asked  to  Court  again. 

I  sob  el:  It  was  your  joke,  Father,  not  the  gentleman- 
in-waiting's. 

(Blayds  chuckles.} 


136        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:    Yes,  I'm  sure  of  that. 

Blayds:  Isobel  knows  all  my  stories  .  .  .  When 
you're  ninety,  they  know  all  your  stories. 

Isobel:  I  like  hearing  them  again,  dear,  and  Mr. 
Royce  hasn't  heard  them. 

Blayds:    I'll  tell  you  one  you  don't  know,  Isobel. 

Iscfbel:    Not  you. 

Blayds:    Will  you  bet? 

Isobel:    It's  taking  your  money. 

Blayds:    Mr.  Royce  will  hold  the  stakes.    A  shilling. 

Isobel:  You  will  be  ruined.  (She  takes  out  her 
purse.) 

Blayds:  (Childishly.)  Have  you  got  one  for  me 
too? 

Isobel:  (Taking  out  two.)  One  for  you  and  one 
for  me.  Here  you  are,  Mr.  Royce. 

Royce:    Thank  you.    Both  good  ones?    Right. 

Blayds:     George  Meredith  told  me  this.     Are  you 
fond  of  cricket,  Mr.  Royce? 
Royce:    Yes,  very. 

Blayds:  So  was  Meredith,  so  was  I  ...  A  young 
boy  playing  for  his  school.  The  important  match  of 
the  year ;  he  gets  his  colours  only  if  he  plays — you  un- 
derstand? Just  before  the  game  began,  he  was  sitting 
in  one  of  those — what  do  they  call  them — deck  chairs, 
when  it  collapsed,  his  hand  between  the  hinges.  Three 
crushed  fingers ;  no  chance  of  playing ;  no  colours.  At 
that  age  a  tragedy ;  it  seems  that  one's  whole  life  is  over. 
You  understand  ? 

Royce:    Yes.     Oh,  very  well. 

Blayds:  But  if  once  the  match  begins  with  him,  he 
has  his  colours,  whatever  happens  afterwards.  So  he 
decides  to  say  nothing  about  the  fingers.  He  keeps  his 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        137 

hand  in  his  pocket;  nobody  has  seen  the  accident,  no- 
body guesses.  His  side  is  in  first.  He  watches — his 
hand  in  his  pocket.  When  his  turn  comes  to  bat  he 
forces  a  glove  over  the  crushed  fingers  and  goes  to 
the  wickets.  He  makes  nothing — well,  that  doesn't 
matter,  he  is  the  wicket-keeper  and  has  gone  in  last. 
But  he  knows  now  that  he  can  never  take  his  place  in 
the  field;  and  he  knows  too  what  an  unfair  thing  he 
has  done  to  his  school  to  let  them  start  their  game  with 
a  cripple.  It  is  impossible  now,  to  confess  .  .  .  So, 
in  between  the  innings,  he  arranges  another  accident 
with  his  chair,  and  falls  back  on  it,  with  his  fingers — 
his  already  crushed  fingers  this  time — in  the  hinges. 
So  nobody  ever  knew.  Not  until  he  was  a  man,  and  it 
all  seemed  very  little  and  far  away. 

Isabel:     What   a   horrible   story!     Give   him   the 
money,  Mr.  Royce. 

Blayds:    Keep  it  for  me,  Isobel. 

(Isabel  takes  it.) 
Royce:    Is  it  true,  sir? 
Blayds:    So  Meredith  said.     He  told  me. 

Royce:     Lord,  what  pluck!     I  think  I  should  have 
forgiven  him  for  that. 

Blayds:    Yes,  an  unfair  thing  to  do,  but  having  done 
it,  he  carried  it  off  in  the  grand  manner. 
Isobel:    To  save  himself. 

Blayds:    Well,  well.     But  he  had  qualities.     Don't 
you  think  so,  Mr.  Royce? 
Royce:    I  do  indeed. 

( There  is  a  silence.  The  excitement  of  the  occa- 
sion has  died  away,  and  you  can  almost  see 
Blayds  getting  older. ) 
Blayds:    (After  a  pause.)     I  could  tell  you  another 


138        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

story,  Isobel,  which  you  don't  know  ...  Of  another 
boy  who  carried  it  off. 

Isobel:    Not  now,  dear.    You  mustn't  tire  yourself. 

Blayds:  (A  very  old  man  suddenly.)  No,  not  now. 
But  I  shall  tell  you  one  day.  Yes,  I  shall  have  to  tell 
you  ...  I  shall  have  to  tell  you. 

Isobel:     (Quietly  to  Royce.)     I  think  perhaps 

Royce:  (Getting  up.}  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to 
have  seen  me,  sir.  I  mustn't  let  you  get  tired  of  me. 

Blayds:  (Very  tired.}  God-bye,  Mr.  Royce.  He 
liked  the  1863  volume,  Isobel. 

Isabel:    Yes,  Father. 

Royce:  Good-bye,  sir,  and  thank  you,  I  shall  always 
remember; 

Isobel:  (In  a  whisper  to  Royce.}  You  can  find 
your  way  out,  can't  you?  I  don't  like  to  leave  him. 

Royce:    Of  course.    I  may  see  you  again  ? 

Isobel:     (Tired.}     I  am  always  here. 

Royce:     Good-bye. 
(He  goes.} 

Blayds:     Isobel,  where  are  you? 

Isobel:     (At  his  side  again.}  Here  I  am,  dear. 

Blayds:    How  old  did  you  say  I  was? 

Isobel:    Ninety. 

Blayds:    Ninety  .  .  .  I'm  tired. 

Isobel:  It  has  been  too  much  for  you,  dear,  I 
oughtn't  to  have  let  him  stay  so  long.  You'd  like  to 
go  to  bed  now,  wouldn't  you?  (She  walks  away  to 
ring  the  bell.) 

Blayds:  (A  frightened  child.)  Where  are  you  go- 
ing? Don't  leave  me. 

Isobel:     (Stopping.)     Only  to  ring  the  bell,  dear. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        139 

Blayds:  Don't  leave  me.  I  want  you  to  hold  my 
hand. 

Isabel:     Yes,  dear.     (She  holds  it.) 

Blayds:  Did  you  say  I  was  ninety?  There's  no  go- 
ing back  at  ninety.  Only  forward — into  the  grave 
that's  waiting  for  you.  So  cold  and  lonely  there, 
Isobel. 

Isabel:    I  am  always  with  you,  dear. 

Blayds:  Hold  me  tight.  I'm  frightened  .  .  .  Did 
I  tell  you  about  the  boy — who  carried  it  off? 

Isobel:    Yes,  dear,  you  told  us. 

Blayds:  No,  not  that  boy — the  other  one.  Are  we 
alone,  Isobel? 

Isobel:    Yes,  dear. 

Blayds:    Listen,  Isobel.     I  want  to  tell 

Isobel:    Tell  me  tomorrow,  dear. 

Blayds:  (In  weak  anger,  because  he  is  frightened.) 
There  are  no  tomorrows  when  you  are  ninety  .  .  . 
when  you  are  ninety  .  .  .  and  they  have  all  left  you 
.  .  .  alone. 

Isobel:  (Soothingly.)  Very  well,  dear.  Tell  me 
now. 

Blayds:  (Eagerly.)  Yes,  yes,  come  closer  .  .  . 
Listen,  Isobel.  (He  draws  her  still  closer  and  begins.) 
Isobel  .  .  . 

(But  we  do  not  hear  it  until  afterwards.) 


ACT  II 

Scene:    The  same  room  a  few  days  later. 

Oliver  comes  in  dressed  in  the  deepest  black,  hav- 
ing just  returned  from  the  funeral  of  Oliver 
Blayds.  He  looks  round  the  room  and  then  up 
at  the  old  gentleman  who  has  now  left  it  for  ever, 
and  draws  his  first  deep  breath  of  freedom.  Then 
sitting  at  his  ease  on  the  sofa  he  takes  out  a 
cigarette  and  lights  it. 

Oliver:     (Blowing  out  smoke.}     Ah! 

(Septima,  also  of  course  in  mourning,  comes 
in.} 

Septima:    (Seeing  the  cigarette.}     Hullo! 

Oliver:     (A  little  on  the  defensive.}     Hullo! 

Septima:    I  think  I'll  join  you.     Got  one? 

Oliver:    I  expect  so.     (He  offers  her  one.} 

Septima:  Thanks.  (He  lights  it  for  her.}  Thanks. 
(She  also  takes  her  first  deep  breath.}  Well,  that's 
that. 

Oliver:    What  did  you  think  of  it? 

Septima:  It's  rather  awful,  isn't  it?  I  mean  awe- 
inspiring. 

Oliver:  Yes.  I  don't  know  why  it  should  be. 
Did  you  cry?  You  looked  like  it  once  or  twice. 

Septima:  Yes.  Not  because  it  was  Grandfather. 
Not  because  it  was  Oliver  Blayds.  But — just  because. 

Oliver:    Because  it  was  the  last  time. 

Septima:    Yes  ...  I  suppose  that's  why  one  cries 

140 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        141 

at  weddings.  Or  at — no,  I've  never  been  to  a  christen- 
ing. 

Oliver:    You  have.     And  I  bet  you  cried. 

Septima:    Oh,  my  own,  yes  .  .  . 

Oliver:  Wonderful  crowd  of  people.  I  don't  think 
I  ever  realised  before  what  a  great  man  he  was. 

Septima:    No,  one  doesn't  .  .  . 

Oliver:  (After  a  pause.}  You  know  there's  a  lot 
of  rot  talked  about  death. 

Septima:    A  lot  of  rot  talked  about  everything. 

Oliver:  Here  was  Oliver  Blayds — the  greatest  man 
of  his  day — seen  everything,  known  everybody,  ninety 
years  old,  honoured  by  all — and  then  he  goes  out. 
Well! 

Septima :    Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  in  fact. 

Oliver:  Not  only  nothing  for  tears,  but  everything 
for  rejoicings.  I  don't  understand  these  religious  peo- 
ple. They're  quite  certain  that  there's  an  after  life, 
and  that  this  life  is  only  a  preparation  for  it — like  a 
cold  bath  in  the  morning  to  the  rest  of  the  day.  And 
yet  they  are  always  the  people  who  make  the  most 
fuss,  and  cover  themselves  with  black,  and  say,  "Poor 
grandfather"  ever  after.  Why  poor?  He  is  richer 
than  ever  according  to  them. 

Septima:  Can't  you  see  Oliver  Blayds  in  Heaven  en- 
joying it  all?  What  poetry  he  would  make  of  it! 

Oliver:  "A  Child's  Thoughts  on  Waking" — eh? 
I've  laughed  at  it,  and  loathed  it,  but  it  was  the  real 
stuff,  you  know.  What's  the  text — "Except  ye  be  born 
again  as  a  little  child,  ye  shall  not  enter  into  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven" — is  that  right?  His  thoughts —  on 
waking  in  Heaven. 

Septima:  (Thoughtfully.)  Septima  Blayds-Con- 
way.  It's  rather  a  thing  to  be,  you  know. 


142       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Oliver:  I  used  to  think  once  that  when  the  old  boy 
died,  I'd  chuck  the  Blayds  and  just  be  plain  Oliver 
Conway.  I'm  beginning  to  think  I  was  wrong  .  .  . 
Oliver  Blayds-Conway. 

Septima:  The  well-known  statesman.  Sorry,  I 
mean  engineer. 

Oliver:    Well,  I  wonder  about  that. 

Septima:    What  sort  of  wondering? 

Oliver:    Things  will  be  a  bit  different  now.    I'm  the 

only  genuine  Blayds  left 

Septima:    Oh,  indeed! 

Oliver:  You  know  what  I  mean,  male  Blayds.  And 
it's  rather  up  to  me  not  to  let  the  old  man  down.  Oliver 
Blayds-Conway  M.  P.  There's  something  in  it,  you 
know.  I  was  thinking  about  it  in  the  Church.  Or 
should  I  drop  the  Conway  and  just  be  Blayds.  Or 
Conway  Blayds  and  drop  the  Oliver?  It's  a  bit  of  a 
problem. 

Septima:  I  shall  keep  the  Blayds  when  I  marry. 
Drop  the  Conway,  of  course. 

Oliver:  It's  a  dirty  game,  politics,  but  that's  all  the 
more  reason  why  there  should  be  some  really  good 
people  in  it.  Irreproachable  people,  I  mean.  Conway 
Blayds  .  .  .(And  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  so 
forth.) 

Septima:  (After  a  pause.}  I  wonder  what  Aunt 
Isobel  wants  to  talk  to  us  all  about. 

Oliver:  The  old  man's  last  dying  instructions  or 
something.  I  was  rather  hoping  to  get  down  to  the 
Oval.  I've  got  the  day  off.  Bit  of  a  change  to  go  to 
the  Oval  when  you  really  have  buried  your  Grand- 
father. But  perhaps  I  ought  to  be  careful  if  I'm  going 
in  seriously  for  politics. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        143 

Septima:  Noll,  have  you  realised  that  it's  all  going 
to  be  rather  interesting  now? 

Oliver:    Of  course  it  is.    But  why  particularly? 

Septima:    Father. 

Oliver:    You  mean  he's  lost  his  job. 

Septima:  Yes.  It's  terribly  exciting  when  your 
Father's  out  of  work. 

Oliver:  He'll  have  more  work  than  ever.  He'll 
write  Blayds'  life.  That'll  take  him  years. 

Septima:  Yes,  but,  don't  you  see,  he  hasn't  any  real 
standing  now.  Who  is  he?  Only  Blayds'  late  secre- 
tary. Whose  house  is  this  now,  do  you  think? 

Oliver:    Depends  how  the  old  man  left  it. 

Septima:  Of  course  it  does.  But  you  can  be  quite 
sure  he  didn't  leave  it  to  Father.  I  think  it's  all  going 
to  be  rather  exciting. 

Oliver:    Well,  you  won't  be  here  to  see  it,  my  child. 

Septima:    Why  not? 

Oliver:  I  thought  you  were  going  to  live  with  that 
Ferguson  girl. 

Septima:  Not  so  sure  now.  There's  no  hurry  any- 
way. I  think  I'll  wait  here  a  bit,  and  see  what  hap- 
pens. It's  all  going  to  be  so  different. 

Oliver:    It  is.     (He  smiles  at  his  thoughts.} 

Septima:    What? 

Oliver:  (Smiling  broadly.)  It's  just  on  the  cards 
that  it's  my  house  now.  (Looking  round  the  room.) 
I  don't  think  I  shall  let  Father  smoke  in  here. 

Septima:  What  fun  that  would  be  ...  I  hope  he's 
left  Aunt  Isobel  something. 

Oliver:  Yes,  poor  dear,  she's  rather  in  the  air,  isn't 
she? 

Septima:    It's  funny  how  little  we  know  her. 


144        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Oliver:  We've  hardly  ever  seen  her,  apart  from  the 
old  man.  I  don't  suppose  there's  much  to  know.  A 
born  nurse  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

Septima:    Perhaps  you're  right. 

Oliver:    I'm  sure  I  am. 

(William  and  Marion  come  on.) 

William:  (Continuing  a  conversation  which  has 
obviously  been  going  on  since  Blayds  died.)  I  say 
again,  Oliver  Blayds  ought  to  have  been  buried  in  the 
Abbey.  The  nation  expected  it.  The  nation  had  the 
right  to  it. 

Marion:  Yes,  dear,  but  we  couldn't  go  against  his 
own  wish.  His  last  wish. 

William:  If  it  was  his  wish,  why  did  he  not  express 
it  to  me? 

Marion:    He  told  Isobel,  dear. 

William:  So  we  are  to  believe.  And  of  course  I 
was  careful  to  let  the  public  understand  that  this  was 
so  in  my  letter  to  the  Times.  But  in  what  circum- 
stances did  he  express  the  wish?  (He  suddenly 
realises  Oliver's  cigarette  and  says  sharply — )  Oliver, 
you  know  quite  well  that  your  Grandfather — (But 
then  he  remembers  where  Grandfather  is.) 

Oliver:    (Not  understanding.)    Yes? 

Marion:  I  think  Father  meant — Of  course  Grand- 
father can't  see  you  now — not  to  mind. 

William:  I  should  have  thought  your  instinct  would 
have  told  you  that  this  is  hardly  the  moment,  when 
Oliver  Blayds  is  just  laid  to  rest 

Marion:    Your  cigarette,  dear. 

Oliver:  Oh!  (He  throws  it  away.)  Sorry,  Moth- 
er, if  you  mind.  I  didn't  think  it  would  matter  either 
way — now. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        145 

Marion:    That's  all  right,  dear. 

William:    As  I  was  saying,  in  what  circumstances 
did  he  express  the  wish? 
Marion:    What,  dear? 

William:  On  his  death-bed,  his  faculties  rapidly  go- 
ing, he  may  have  indicated  preference  for  a  simple 
ceremony.  But  certainly  up  to  a  few  weeks  of  his 
passing,  although  it  was  naturally  a  subject  which  I  did 
not  care  myself  to  initiate,  he  always  gave  me  the  im- 
pression that  he  anticipated  an  interment  in  the  Abbey. 

Marion:  Yes,  dear.  I  daresay  I  shall  feel  it  more 
later,  but  just  now  I  like  to  think  of  him  where  he 
wanted  to  be  himself. 

Septima:  After  all,  Shakespeare  isn't  buried  in  the 
Abbey. 

William:  I  don't  think  that  that  has  anything  to 
do  with  it,  Septima.  I  am  not  saying  that  the  reputa- 
tion of  Oliver  Blayds  will  suffer  by  reason  of  his 
absence  from  the  national  Valhalla;  he  has  built  his 
own  monument  in  a  thousand  deathless  lines;  but 
speaking  as  an  Englishman,  I  say  that  the  Abbey 
had  a  right  to  him. 

Marion:    Well,  it's  too  late  now,  dear. 
William:    I  shall  speak  to  Isobel  again;  I  still  feel 
sure  she  was  mistaken. 

Marion:  Very  well,  dear.  But  don't  worry  her 
more  than  you  need.  I  feel  rather  uneasy  about  her. 
She  has  been  so  strange  since  he  died. 

William:  She  will  be  worried  enough  as  it  is.  Of 
all  the  extraordinary  wills  to  make ! 

(Oliver  and  Septima  exchange  glances.) 

Oliver:  Why,  what's  he  done?  We  were  wonder- 
ing about  that. 


146       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

William:  Yes,  yes,  yes,  you  will  know  in  good 
time,  my  boy. 

Oliver:  Why  not  now?  This  seems  a  very  good 
time. 

Septima:    Are  we  too  young  to  be  told  ? 

William:  (Ignoring  them.}  Marion,  don't  let  me 
forget  that  message  to  the  public — returning  thanks 
for  their  sympathy  and  so  on.  (Moving  to  the  desk.) 
We  might  draft  that  now. 

Marion:    Yes,  dear. 

Septima:  Oliver  was  asking  you  about  the  will, 
Father. 

William:    Yes,  yes,  another  time.     Marion 

Oliver:    I  suppose  I  am  mentioned  in  it? 

William:     Of  course,  of  course. 

Oliver:    To  what  extent? 

(William  is  too  busy  to  answer.) 

Septima:     Father,  don't  be  so  childish. 

William:     (Outraged.)     Septima! 

Marion:  Septima  dear,  you  oughtn't  to  talk  to  your 
father  like  that. 

William:  (With  dignity.)  I  think  you  had  better 
go  to  your  room. 

Septima:  (Unmoved.)  But  that's  the  whole  point 
Is  it  my  room? 

(William  looks  bewildered.) 

Or  is  it  Oliver's,  or  Mother's,  or  Aunt  Isobel's  ? 

Oliver:  I  believe  he  has  left  everything  to  Aunt 
Isobel. 

Marion:  Oh,  no,  dear,  he  wouldn't  do  that.  He 
would  never  have  favourites.  Share  and  share  alike. 

Septima:    Half  for  you  and  half  for  Aunt  Isobel? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        147 

Marion:  Of  course,  dear.  And  all  to  you  and 
Oliver  after  our  death.  And  something  down  to  you 
now.  I  forget  how  much.  (To  William.}  What 
was  it,  dear? 

William:    (Sulkily.}    A  thousand  pounds  each. 

Oliver:  Sportsman!  What  about  you,  Father? 
Do  you  get  anything? 

Marion:     Father  gets  a  thousand,  too. 

Septima:  Then  why  "of  all  the  extraordinary 
wills—"? 

Marion:  It's  because  of  Aunt  Isobel  being  made 
sole  executor — literary  executor  too — isn't  that  it, 
dear? 

Willia  m :     ( Mumbling. )     Yes. 

Oliver:  Oho!  Meaning  that  she  runs  Blayds  now? 
New  editions,  biographies,  unpublished  fragments, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it? 

Marion:  Naturally  she  will  leave  it  in  Father's 
hands.  But  of  course  Father  is  a  little  hurt  that  Grand- 
father didn't  think  of  that  for  himself. 

Oliver:  Oh  well,  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  much. 
Then  that's  why  she  wants  to  see  us  all  now. 

(  William  grunts  assent;  and  stands  up  as  Isobel 
comes  in.) 

William:    Ah,  here  you  are. 

Isobel:    I'm  sorry  if  I  have  kept  you  waiting. 

Marion:    It's  all  right,  dear. 

William:  I  was  just  telling  Marion  that  I  am  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  Oliver  Blayds'  rightful  rest- 
ing place  was  the  Abbey. 

Isobel:     (Shaking  her  head  wearily.)     No. 

William:     I  was  saying  to  Marion,  even  if  he  ex- 


148        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

pressed  the  wish  in  his  last  moments  for  a  quiet  inter- 
ment  

Isabel:  He  never  expressed  the  wish,  one  way  or 
the  other. 

William:  My  dear  Isobel!  You  distinctly  told 
us 

Marion:     You  did  say,  dear. 

Isobel:    Yes,  I  owe  you  an  apology  about  that. 

William:     (Indignantly.}     An  apology! 

Isobel:  There  is  something  I  have  to  tell  you  all. 
Will  you  please  listen,  all  of  you?  Won't  you  sit  down, 
William? 

(  They  sit  down. ) 

Marion:     What  is  it,  dear? 

William:  You've  been  very  mysterious  these  last 
few  days. 

Isobel:  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  until  he  had 
been  buried.  I  shall  not  be  mysterious  now;  I  shall 
be  only  too  plain. 

Septima:     (To  Oliver.}     I  say,  what's  up? 
(Oliver  shrugs  his  shoulders.} 

William:    Well? 

Isobel:  I  told  you  that  Father  didn't  want  to  be 
buried  in  the  Abbey,  not  because  he  had  said  so,  but 
because  it  was  quite  impossible  that  he  should  be  buried 
in  the  Abbey. 

William :    Impossible ! 

Marion:  I'm  sure  the  Dean  would  have  been  only — 

Isobel:  Impossible  because  he  had  done  nothing  to 
make  him  worthy  of  that  honour. 

William:    Well! 

Oliver:  Oh  no,  Aunt  Isobel,  you're  wrong  there.  I 
mean  when  you  think  of  some  of  the  people 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        149 

Isabel:  Will  you  listen  to  me,  please?  And  ask  any 
questions  afterwards.  You  may  think  I'm  mad;  I'm 
not  ...  I  wish  I  were. 

William:    Well,  what  is  it? 

(She  tells  them;  it  is  almost  as  if  she  were  re- 
peating a  lesson  which  she  had  learnt  by  heart. 
Blayds,  you  may  be  sure,  made  a  story  of  it 
when  he  told  her — we  seem  to  hear  snatches 
of  that  story  now.) 

Isabel:  Nearly  seventy  years  ago  there  were  two 
young  men,  boys  almost,  twenty-three  perhaps,  living 
together  in  rooms  in  Islington.  Both  poor,  both  eager, 
ambitious,  certain  of  themselves,  very  certain  of  their 
destiny.  But  only  one  of  them  was  a  genius.  He  was 
a  poet,  this  one;  perhaps  the  greater  poet  because  he 
knew  that  he  had  not  long  to  live.  As  the  lark  sings, 
so  he  sang.  The  poetry  came  bubbling  out  of  him,  and 
he  wrote  it  down  feverishly,  quick,  quick  before  the 
hand  became  cold  and  the  fingers  could  no  longer  write. 
That  was  all  his  ambition.  He  had  no  thoughts  of 
present  fame ;  there  was  no  time  for  it.  He  was  con- 
tent to  live  unknown,  so  that  when  dead  he  might  live 
forever.  His  friend  was  ambitious  in  a  different  way. 
He  wanted  the  present  delights  of  fame.  So  they  lived 
together  there,  one  writing  and  writing,  always  writ- 
ing; the  other  writing  and  then  stopping  to  think  how 
famous  he  was  going  to  be,  and  envying  those  who 
were  already  famous,  and  then  regretfully  writing 
again.  A  time  came  when  the  poet  grew  very  ill,  and 
lay  in  bed,  but  still  writing,  but  still  hurrying,  hurrying 
to  keep  pace  with  the  divine  music  in  his  brain.  Then 
one  day  there  was  no  more  writing,  no  more  music. 
The  poet  was  dead.  (She  is  silent  for  a  little.) 

William:  (As  her  meaning  slowly  comes  to  him.) 
Isobel,  what  are  you  saying? 


150       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Marion:    I  don't  understand.    Who  was  it? 
Oliver:    Good  Lord! 

Isabel:  (In  the  same  quiet  voice.}  The  friend  was 
left — with  the  body  of  the  poet — and  all  that  great 
monument  which  the  dead  man  had  raised  for  himself. 
The  poet  had  no  friends  but  this  one;  no  relations  of 
whom  he  had  ever  spoken  or  who  claimed  him  now. 
He  was  dead,  and  it  was  left  to  his  friend  to  see  that 
he  won  now  that  immortality  for  which  he  had  given 
his  life  .  .  .  His  friend  betrayed  him. 

Septima:    I  say! 

William:    I  won't  believe  it!    It's  monstrous! 

Marion:    I  don't  understand. 

Isabel:  (Wearily.}  One  can  see  the  temptation. 
There  he  was,  this  young  man  of  talent,  of  great  ambi- 
tion, and  there  were  these  works  of  genius  lying  at  his 
feet,  waiting  to  be  picked  up — and  fathered  by  him. 
I  suppose  that,  like  every  other  temptation,  it  came 
suddenly.  He  writes  out  some  of  the  verses,  scribbled 
down  anyhow  by  the  poet  in  his  mad  hurry,  and  sends 
them  to  the  publisher;  one  can  imagine  the  publisher's 
natural  acceptance  of  the  friend  as  the  true  author,  the 
friend's  awkwardness  in  undeceiving  him,  and  then  his 
sudden  determination  to  make  the  most  of  the  oppor- 
tunity given  him  .  .  .  Oh,  one  can  imagine  many 
things — but  what  remains?  Always  and  always  this. 
That  Oliver  Blayds  was  not  a  poet;  that  he  did  not 
write  the  works  attributed  to  him ;  and  that  he  be- 
trayed his  friend.  (She  stops  and  then  says  in  an 
ordinary  matter  of  fact  voice.}  That  was  why  I 
thought  that  he  ought  not  to  be  buried  in  the  Abbey. 

Oliver:    Good  Lord! 

William:     (Sharply.}     Is  this  true,  Isobel? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        151 

Isabel:  It  isn't  the  sort  of  story  that  I  should  make 
up. 

Marion:  I  don't  understand.  (To  William.}  What 
is  it?  I  don't  understand. 

William:  Isobel  is  telling  us  that  Oliver  Blayds 
stole  all  his  poetry  from  another  man. 

Marion:    Stole  it! 

William :    Passed  it  off  as  his  own. 

Marion:  (Firmly  to  Isobel.)  Oh  no,  dear,  you 
must  be  wrong.  Why  should  Grandfather  want  to 
steal  anybody  else's  poetry  when  he  wrote  so  beautifully 
himself? 

Septima:  That's  just  the  point,  Mother.  Aunt 
Isobel  says  that  he  didn't  write  anything  himself. 

Marion:  But  there  are  the  books  with  his  name 
on  them! 

Isobel:    Stolen — from  his  friend. 

Marion:  (Shocked.)  Isobel,  how  can  you?  Your 
own  father! 

William:  I  don't  believe  it.  I  had  the  privilege  of 
knowing  Oliver  Blayds  for  nearly  thirty  years  and  I 
say  that  I  don't  believe  it. 

Isobel:  I  knew  him  for  some  time  too.  He  was  my 
father. 

William:    When  did  he  tell  you  this? 

Oliver:     It's  a  dashed   funny  thing  that 

William:  If  you  will  allow  me,  Oliver.  I  want  to 
get  to  the  bottom  of  this.  When  did  he  tell  you? 

Isobel:    That  last  evening.     His  birthday. 

William:    How?    Why?    Why  should  he  tell  you ? 

Isobel.-  He  seemed  frightened  suddenly — of  dying. 
I  suppose  he'd  always  meant  to  tell  somebody  before 
he  died. 


152       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Marion:    Why  didn't  you  tell  us  before,  dear? 

William:  (Holding  up  his  Jiand.)  Please.  Let 
me.  (To  Isabel.}  Why  didn't  you  tell  us  before? 

Isabel:  I  promised  not  to  say  anything  until  he  was 
dead.  Then  I  thought  I  would  wait  until  he  was 
buried. 

Marion:  You  couldn't  have  made  a  mistake?  You 
couldn't  have  misunderstood  him? 

Isobel:    (Smiling  sadly.}     No. 

William:  You  say  that  this  other  man  died — how 
many  years  ago? 

Isobel:     Sixty,  seventy. 

William:  Ah!  (Sarcastically.)  And  sixty  years 
after  he  was  dead,  he  was  apparently  still  writing  poetry 
for  Oliver  Blayds  to  steal  ? 

Isobel:  He  had  already  written  it — sixty  years  ago 
— for  Oliver  Blayds  to  steal. 

Oliver:    Good  Lord!    What  a  man! 

Septima:    You  mean  that  his  last  volume 

William:  (Holding  up  his  hand.)  Please  Septima 
.  .  .  Take  this  last  volume  published  when  he  was  over 
eighty.  You  say  that  everything  there  had  been  writ- 
ten by  this  other  man  sixty  years  ago  ? 

Isobel:    Yes. 

William:  And  the  manuscripts  were  kept  by  Oliver 
Blayds  for  sixty  years,  written  out  again  by  him  and 
published  in  his  old  age  as  his  own? 

Isobel:    Yes. 

William:  (Triumphantly.)  And  can  you  explain 
how  it  was  that  he  didn't  publish  them  earlier  if  he  had 
had  them  in  his  possession  all  those  years? 

Isobel:  He  didn't  dare  to.  He  was  afraid  of  being 
left  with  nothing  to  publish.  He  took  care  always  to 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        153 

have  something  in  reserve.  And  that's  why  everybody 
said  how  wonderfully  vigorous  and  youthful  his  mind" 
was  at  eighty,  how  amazing  that  the  spirit  and  fire 
of  youth  had  remained  with  him  so  long.  Yes,  it  was 
the  spirit  and  fire  of  youth,  but  of  a  youth  who  died 
seventy  years  ago. 

Oliver:  (Impressed.)  Gad,  you  know,  fancy  the 
old  chap  keeping  it  up  like  that.  Shows  how  little  one 
really  knows  people.  I  had  no  idea  he  was  such  a 
sportsman. 

Septima:    Such  a  liar. 

Oliver:    Same  thing,  sometimes. 

Septima:    I  call  it  perfectly  disgusting. 

William:  Please,  please!  We  shan't  arrive  at  the 
truth  like  that.  (To  Isabel.)  You  want  me  to  under- 
stand that  Oliver  Blayds  has  never  written  a  line  of 
his  own  poetry  in  his  life? 

Marion:  Why,  Grandfather  was  always  writing 
poetry.  Even  as  a  child  I  remember 

Septima:  (Impatiently.)  Mother,  can't  you  under- 
stand that  the  Oliver  Blayds  we  thought  we  knew 
never  existed? 

Marion:  But  I  was  telling  you,  dear,  that  even  as  a 
child 

Septima:  (To  Oliver.)  It's  no  good,  she's  hope- 
lessly muddled. 

William:  Yes,  yes  ...  Do  you  wish  me  to  under- 
stand  

Isobel:  I  wish  you  to  know  the  truth.  We've  been 
living  in  a  lie,  all  of  us,  all  our  lives,  and  now  at  last 
we  have  found  the  truth.  You  talk  as  if,  for  some  rea- 
son, I  wanted  to  spread  slanders  about  Oliver  Blayds 
now  that  he  is  dead ;  as  if  in  some  way  all  this  great 


154       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

lie  were  my  doing;  as  if  it  were  no  pain  but  a  sort  of 
a  pleasure  to  me  to  find  out  what  sort  of  man  my 
father  really  was.  Ask  me  questions — I  want  you  to 
know  everything;  but  don't  cross  examine  me  as  if  I 
were  keeping  back  the  truth. 

William:  (Upset  and  apologetic.)  Quite  so,  quite 
so.  It's  the  truth  which  we  want. 

Marion:  As  Grandfather  said  so  beautifully  him- 
self in  his  Ode  to  Truth — What  are  the  lines  ? 

Septima:     (Hopelessly.}     Oh,  Mother! 

Marion:  Yes,  and  that  was  what  I  was  going  to 
say — could  a  man  who  wrote  so  beautifully  about  truth 
as  Grandfather  did,  tell  lies  and  deceive  people  as 
Isobel  says  he  did?  (To  Isabel.)  I'm  sure  you  must 
have  made  a  mistake,  dear. 

Oliver:  You  never  told  us — what  was  the  other  fel- 
low's name? 

William:  I  am  corning  to  that  directly.  What  I 
am  asking  you  now  is  this.  Did  Oliver  Blayds  write 
no  line  of  poetry  himself  at  all? 

Isobel:    He  wrote  the  1863  Volume. 

William:    (Staggered.)     Oh! 

Oliver:  The  wash-out?  By  Jove!  Then  that  ex- 
plains it ! 

Isobel:  Yes,  that  explains  it.  He  tried  to  tell  him- 
self that  he  was  a  poet  too ;  that  he  had  only  used  the 
other  man  in  order  to  give  himself  a  start.  So  he 
brought  out  a  volume  of  his  own  poems.  And  then 
when  everybody  said  "Blayds  is  finished,"  he  went  back 
hastily  to  his  friend  and  never  ventured  by  himself 
again.  And  that  explains  why  he  resented  the  criti- 
cism of  that  volume,  why  he  was  so  pleased  when  it 
was  praised.  It  was  all  that  he  had  written. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        155 

William:     (Defeated  now.)     Yes,  that  would  ex- 
plain it.     (To  himself.)     Oliver  Blayds!  .  .  . 
(They  are  all  silent  for  a  little.) 

Septima:    Then  he  didn't  write  "Septima." 

Oliver:  Of  course  he  didn't.  You're  illegitimate, 
old  girl. 

Septima:    Who  did? 

Isabel:     The  other  man's  name  was  Jenkins  •. 

Septima:     (In  disgust.)     Christened  after  Jenkins! 

Oliver:    Oliver  Jenkins-Conway  M.  P.,    Good  Lord! 

Septima:    It  will  have  to  be  Oliver  Conway  now. 

Oliver:  (Gloomily.)  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But 
everybody  will  know. 

William:  (Still  fighting.)  His  friends,  Isobel.  The 
great  friends  he  had  had.  The  stories  he  has  told  us 
about  them — were  those  all  lies  too  ?  No,  they  couldn't 
have  been.  I've  seen  them  here  myself. 

Marion:  Why,  I  remember  going  to  see  Uncle 
Thomas  once  when  I  was  a  little  girl — Carlyle — Uncle 
Thomas  I  called  him. 

Oliver:  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  7  can  remem- 
ber  

Isobel:  Oh,  the  friends  were  there.  They  accepted 
him  for  what  he  seemed  to  be,  just  as  we  did.  He 
deceived  them  as  cleverly  as  he  deceived  us. 

William:     Tennyson,  Browning,  Swinburne 

Isobel:  (Bitterly.)  Oh,  he  had  his  qualities.  He 
talked  well.  There  were  his  books.  Why  should  they 
doubt  him? 

William:     Yes  .  .  .  Yes. 

(There  is  silence  for  a  little.) 

Marion:  (Going  over  to  Isobel  and  shaking  her 
by  the  arm.)  Is  it  really  true  what  you've  been  saying? 


156       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Isabel:    Oh,  how  I  wish  it  weren't. 

Marion:    (To  William.)    Is  it  true? 

William:    He  told  her.    She  wouldn't  make  it  up. 

Marion:  But  there's  all  his  beautiful  poetry.  I've 
been  brought  up  to  believe  in  it  all  my  life.  I've  lived 
on  it.  And  now  you've  taken  him  away,  and  you've 
left — nothing. 

Isabel:    Nothing. 

Marion:  (Quite  lost.)  I  don't  understand.  (She 
goes  back  in  a  vague,  bewildered  way  to  her  chair. ) 

Septima:  (Suddenly.)  The  poetry  is  still  there — 
and  Jenkins. 

Oliver:    Shut  up,  Tim! 

Septima:    Shut  up  about  what? 

Oliver:  Jenkins.  Don't  rub  it  in.  It's  much  worse 
for  Mother  than  it  is  for  us. 

Septima:    Oh,  all  right!     But  you  don't  gain  any- 
thing by  not  being  frank  about  it. 
(There  is  another  silence.) 

Oliver:  Good  Lord!  I've  just  thought  of  some- 
thing. 

(They  look  at  him.) 
The  money. 

William:    The  money? 

Oliver:  All  this.  (He  indicates  the  room.)  Who 
does  it  belong  to? 

William:  According  to  the  provisions  of  your 
grandfather's  will 

Oliver:    Yes,  but  it  wasn't  his  to  leave. 

William:    Not  his  to 

Oliver:    No,  Jenkins. 

Septima:  I  thought  we  weren't  going  to  mention 
Mr.  Jenkins. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        157 

Oliver:  Shut  up,  Tim,  that's  different.  (To  the 
others.)  All  this  money  comes  from  the  books — at 
least  I  suppose  it  does — and  the  books  aren't  his,  so 
the  money  isn't  either. 

William:  (Turning  in  a  bewildered  way  to  Isabel.} 
Is  that  so? 

Isabel:    (With  a  shrug.}    I  suppose  so. 
William :    You  say  he  had  no  family,  this  other  man. 
Isabel:     None  who  bothered  about  him.     But  there 
must  be  relations  somewhere. 

William :    We  shall  have  to  find  that  out. 
Isabel:     Anyhow,  as  Oliver  says,  the  money  isn't 
ours.     (Bitterly.}     I  wouldn't  touch  a  penny. 

William:  Some  of  the  money  would  be  rightfully 
his.  There  was  that  one  volume  anyhow.  It  may  not 
have  been  praised,  but  it  was  bought.  Then  there's 
the  question  of  his  investments.  It  may  prove  that 
some  of  his  most  profitable  investments  were  made 
about  that  time — with  that  very  money.  In  which 
case,  if  it  could  be  established 

Isabel:  (Indignantly.}  Oh,  how  can  you  talk  like 
that !  As  if  it  mattered.  It's  tainted  money  all  of  it. 

William:  I  think  that's  going  too  far.  Very  much 
too  far.  I  recognise  of  course  that  we  have  certain 
obligations  towards  the  relatives  of  this  man — er — Jen- 
kins. Obviously  we  must  fulfil  those  obligations.  But 
when  that  is  done 

Marion:  (To  Isobel.}  We  shall  be  generous  of 
course,  dear,  that's  only  fair. 

Oliver:  Yes,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  if  no 
relations  turn  up  ? 

William:  (Turning  doubtfully  to  Isabel.}  Well, 
there  is  that,  of  course. 


158       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Marion :  In  that  case  we  couldn't  do  anything,  could 
we,  dear? 

Isabel:  We  could  throw  the  money  into  the  sea, 
we  could  bury  it  deep  in  the  ground,  we  could  even 
give  it  away,  Marion. 

William:     That's  going  much  too  far. 

Oliver:     It's  rather  a  problem,  you  know. 

Septima:  It  isn't  a  problem  at  all.  May  I  speak 
for  a  moment?  I  really  think  I  have  a  right  to  say 
something. 

William:    Well? 

Septima:  I  want  to  say  this.  Oliver  and  I  have 
been  brought  up  in  a  certain  way  to  expect  certain 
things.  Oliver  wanted  to  be  an  engineer;  he  wasn't 
allowed  to,  as  Grandfather  wanted  him  to  go  into  poli- 
tics. I  wanted  to  share  a  studio  with  a  friend  and 
try  and  get  on  with  my  painting;  I  wasn't  allowed  to, 
as  Grandfather  wanted  me  at  home.  Perhaps  if  Oliver 
had  been  an  engineer,  he  would  have  been  doing  well 
by  now.  Perhaps  if  I  had  had  my  way,  I  might  have 
been  earning  my  living  by  now.  As  it  is,  we  have  been 
brought  up  as  the  children  and  grandchildren  of  rich 
people;  I  can't  earn  my  own  living,  and  Oliver  is  in  a 
profession  in  which  money  means  success.  Aunt 
Isobel  has  been  telling  us  how  a  young  man  of  Oliver's 
age,  seventy  years  ago,  was  cheated  out  of  his  rights. 
Apparently  she  thinks  that  the  best  way  now  of  making 
up  for  that  is  to  cheat  Oliver  and  me  out  of  our  rights. 
I  don't  agree  with  her. 

Oliver:  Yes,  there's  a  good  deal  in  that.  Well  done, 
Tim. 

Isobel:  It's  hard  on  you,  I  know.  But  you  are 
young;  you  still  have  your  lives  in  front  of  you,  to 
make  what  you  will  of  them. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        159 

Septima:  That's  what  old  people  always  say  to 
people  of  our  age,  and  they  seem  to  think  that  it  excuses 
any  injustice. 

Marion:     Poor  Grandfather! 

Scptima:  Yes,  but  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be 
"Poor  Oliver"  and  "Poor  Septima"  too.  Suppose  any 
relation  did  turn  up — (To  William.) — suppose  they 
do,  Father.  Well,  what  will  they  all  be?  Grand- 
nephews,  or  fifth  cousins  twice  removed  or  something, 
who  have  never  heard  of  Jenkins,  who  never  did  any- 
thing for  Jenkins,  and  on  whose  lives  Jenkins  has  had 
no  effect  whatever.  Is  there  any  sort  of  justice  which 
says  that  they  ought  to  have  the  money?  But  Noll 
and  I  have  given  up  a  good  deal  for  Oliver  Blayds, 
and  he  owes  us  something. 

Isabel:  (With  ironic  sadness.)  Oh,  yes,  you  have 
given  up  a  good  deal  for  Oliver  Blayds.  It  ought  to 
be  paid  back  to  you. 

William:  (Still  trying  to  be  fair.)  There's  another 
thing  we  must  remember.  Even  if  this  other  man 

Septima :    Jenkins. 

William:  Yes,  even  if  he  wrote  all  the  books — 
always  excepting  the  1863  volume — even  so,  it  was 
Oliver  Blayds  who  arranged  for  their  publication.  He 
could  fairly  claim  therefore  an  agent's  commission  on 
all  monies  received.  Ten  per  cent. 

Isobcl:  (Scornfully.)  Oliver  Blayds,  the  well- 
known  commission  agent! 

William:  Ten  per  cent,  of  all  monies,  therefore,  is 
in  any  case  rightfully  ours. 

Marion:  Only  ten  per  cent,  dear.  That  seems  very 
little. 

William:  I  am  working  on  a  minimum  basis.  Isobel 
says,  "Throw  all  the  money  into  the  sea ;  it  doesn't  be- 


160       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

long  to  us."  I  say  no,  that  is  going  too  far.  We  have 
one  volume  which  is  certainly  ours.  We  have  the  ten 
per  cent,  commission  which  is  certainly  ours.  »There 
may  be  other  sums  due  to  us,  such  as  the  profits  of  in- 
vestments. We  can  look  into  the  matter  carefully  at 
our  leisure.  The  great  point,  I  take  it,  is  that  we  want 
to  be  fair  to  the  relatives  of  this  man  Jenkins,  but  also 
fair  to  the  relatives  of  Oliver  Blayds.  Who,  as  Septima 
points  out,  have  at  least  done  something  to  earn  any 
money  that  comes  to  them. 

Marion:  (To  Isabel.)  We  want  to  be  fair  to 
everybody,  dear. 

Septima:  Well,  I  think  you  are  going  to  give  the 
Jenkinses  much  too  much.  What  right  have  the  Jen- 
kinses got  to  any  of  the  money  which  Grandfather 
made  by  investing? 

Oliver:  Well,  it  was  Jenkins'  money  which  was  in- 
vested. 

Marion:  We  shouldn't  like  to  think  of  them  starv- 
ing because  we  weren't  quite  fair. 

Septima:  They  let  Jenkins  starve.  They  didn't 
worry  about  him. 

Oliver:  Of  course  they  didn't,  they  weren't  even 
born. 

William:  The  whole  question  is  extremely  difficult. 
We  may  require  an  arbitrator,  or  at  any  rate  a  qualified 
chartered  accountant. 

Marion:  Yes,  that  would  be  better,  dear.  To  let 
somebody  else  decide  what  is  fair  and  what  isn't. 

Isabel:  (In  a  low  voice.)  Oh,  it's  horrible  .  .  . 
horrible. 

Marion:    What,  dear? 

Isabel:  The  way  you  talk — about  the  money.  As 
if  all  that  we  had  lost  was  so  much  money.  As  if  you 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        161 

could  estimate  the  wrong  that  Oliver  Blayds  did  to 
his  friend  in  the  terms  of  money.  I  said  the  money 
was  tainted.  It  is.  How  can  you  bear  to  touch  it? 
How  can  you  bear  to  profit  by  such  a  betrayal? 

Scptima:  That's  pure  sentiment,  Aunt  Isobel.  Quite 
apart  from  not  being  reasonable,  it  isn't  even  practical. 
Where  are  you  going  to  draw  the  line  ?  If  you're  going 
to  throw  the  money  away,  then  you've  got  to  throw  the 
house  away  and  everything  in  the  house  away — all  our 
clothes  to  begin  with.  Because  everything — everything 
that  belongs  to  us  owes  itself  to  that  betrayal  of  seventy 
years  ago  .  .  .  We  should  look  very  funny,  the  five 
of  us,  walking  out  from  the  house  tomorrow,  with 
nothing  on,  and  starting  life  all  over  again. 

Marion:  Septima  dear,  I  don't  think  that's  quite — 
(Septinia  begins  to  laugh  to  herself  at  the  pic- 
ture of  them.) 

Oliver:  That  isn't  fair,  Tim.  An  extreme  case 
makes  anything  seem  absurd.  (Earnestly  to  Isobel.) 
You  know,  I  do  see  what  you  mean  and  I  do  sym- 
pathise. But  even  if  we  kept  all  the  money,  would 
that  matter  very  much?  All  this  man  Jenkins  wanted 
was  to  leave  an  immortal  name  behind  him.  You've 
just  told  us  that  nothing  else  interested  him.  Jenkins 
— I  don't  say  it's  much  of  a  name,  but  neither  was 
Keats  for  that  matter.  Well,  Grandfather  robbed  him 
of  that,  and  a  damned  shame  too,  but  now  we  are  giv- 
ing it  back  to  him.  So  all  that's  happened  is  that  he's 
had  seventy  years  less  immortality  than  he  expected. 
But  he  can't  worry  seriously  about  that,  any  more  than 
Wordsworth  can  worry  because  he  was  born  two 
hundred  years  after  Shakespeare.  They  are  all  equally 
immortal. 

Marion:  (To  Isabel.)  You  see,  dear,  that's  quite 
fair  to  everybody. 


1 62        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Isobel:  One  can't  argue  about  it ;  you  feel  it  or  you 
don't.  And  I  give  up  my  share  of  the  money,  so  there 
should  be  plenty  for  all  of  you,  even  after  you  have 
been  "fair"  to  the  others. 

William:  (Who  has  felt  Isabel's  scorn  deeply.} 
Isobel!  I  don't  think  you  can  realise  how  much  you 
have  hurt  me  by  your  words.  After  the  first  shock 
of  your  revelation  it  has  been  my  one  object  to  keep 
my  real  feelings,  my  very  deep  feelings  under  control. 
I  suppose  that  this  revelation,  this  appalling  revelation, 
has  meant  more  to  me  than  to  anyone  in  this  room. 
Put  quite  simply,  it  means  the  end  of  my  life  work, 
the  end  of  a  career  ...  I  think  you  know  how  I  de- 
voted myself  to  Oliver  Blayds — 

Marion:    Simply  devoted  himself,  dear. 

William:  I  gave  up  whatever  other  ambitions  I 
may  have  had 

Marion:  (To  the  children.)  I  always  said  that 
Father  could  have  done  anything. 

William:  — And  I  set  myself  from  that  day  on  to 
live  for  one  thing  only,  Oliver  Blayds.  It  was  a  great 
pride  to  me  to  be  his  son-in-law,  a  great  pride  to  be  his 
secretary,  but  the  greatest  pride  of  all  was  the  thought 
that  I  was  helping  others  to  know  aand  to  love,  as  I 
knew  and  loved  him,  that  very  great  poet,  that  very 
great  man,  Oliver  Blayds.  You  tell  me  now  that  he 
is — (He  snaps  his  fingers.} — nothing.  A  hollow  mask. 
(His  voice  rises.}  I  think  I  have  some  right  to  be 
angry,  I  think  I  have  some  right  to  bear  resentment 
against  this  man  who  has  tricked  me,  who  has  been 
making  a  fool  of  me  for  all  these  years.  When  I  think 
of  the  years  of  labour  which  I  have  spent  already  in 
getting  the  materials  together  for  this  great  man's  life: 
when  I  think  how  I  have  listened  to  him  and  taken  down 
eagerly  his  every  word;  when  I  think  that  tomorrow, 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        163 

I  am  to  be  held  up  to  the  derision  of  the  world  for  the 
gullible  fool  I  have  shown  myself  to  be,  I  think  I  have 
a  right  to  be  angry.  (With  a  great  effort  he  controls 
himself  and  goes  on  more  quietly.)  But  I  have  tried 
to  control  my  feelings.  I  have  remembered  that  he  was 
your  father  and  Marion's  father,  and  I  have  tried 
to  control  myself.  To  forget  my  own  feelings,  and 
to  consider  only  how  best  to  clear  up  this  wreckage 
that  Oliver  Blayds  has  left  behind.  It  is  not  for  you 
to  scorn  me,  me  who  have  been  the  chief  one  to  suffer. 

Marion:    Poor  Father!     (She  puts  out  a  hand.) 

William:  (Patting  it.)  That's  all  right.  I  don't 
want  pity.  I  just  want  Isobel  to  try  to  realise  what  it 
means  to  me. 

Olircr:  Yes,  by  Jove,  it  is  a  bit  rough  on  the  gov- 
ernor. 

Septima:    Rough  on  all  of  us. 

Marion:  But  your  Father  has  suffered  most.  You 
must  always  remember  that. 

Isobel:  Poor  William!  Yes,  it  is  hard  on  you. 
Your  occupation's  gone. 

William :  It  is  a  terrible  blow  to  us  all,  this  dreadful 
news  that  you  have  given  us.  But  you  can  understand 
that  to  me  it  is  absolutely  crushing. 

Isobel:     (In  a  whisper.)     And  to  me? 

(They  look  at  her  in  surprise.) 
What  has  it  been  to  me? 

William:    Well,  as  I  was  saying 

Isobel:  You  have  enjoyed  your  life  here,  yes,  every 
moment  of  it.  If  you  hadn't  been  secretary  to  Oliver 
Blayds,  you  would  have  been  secretary  to  somebody 
else — it's  what  you're  best  fitted  for.  Yes,  you  have 


164        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

lived  your  life ;  you  have  had  interests,  a  hundred  inter- 
ests every  day  to  keep  you  active  and  eager  .  .  . 
(Almost  to  herself,)  But  I  say,  what  of  me?  What 
has  my  life  been?  Look  at  me  now — what  am  I — a 
wasted  woman.  I  might  have  been  a  wife,  a  mother— 
with  a  man  of  my  own,  children  of  my  own,  in  my  own 
home.  Look  at  me  now  .  .  .  ! 

Marion:     My  dear,  I  never  dreamt 

Isabel:  (Eighteen  years  away  from  them  all.) 
He  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Tall  and  straight  and 
clean  he  was,  and  he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Ah,  how 
happy  we  should  have  been  together  he  and  I — should 
we  not  have  been  happy  ?  He  asked  me  to  marry  him. 

Marion:     Isobel! 

Isabel:  Such  a  long  time  ago.  I  was  young  then, 
and  pretty  then,  and  the  world  was  very  full  then  of 
beautiful  things.  I  used  to  laugh  then — we  laughed 
together — such  a  gay  world  it  was  all  those  years  ago. 
And  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  ...  (In  a  hard  voice.} 
I  didn't.  I  sent  him  away.  I  said  that  I  must  stay 
with  my  Father,  Oliver  Blayds,  the  great  poet.  Yes, 
I  was  helping  the  great  poet.  (With  a  bitter  laugh.} 
Helping!  .  .  .  And  I  sent  my  man  away. 

Septima:    (Distressed.)    Oh,  don't! 

Isobel:  You  thought  I  liked  nursing.  "A  born 
nurse" — I  can  hear  you  saying  it.  (Fiercely.)  I  hated 
it.  Do  you  know  what  it's  like  nursing  a  sick  old  man 
— day  after  day,  night  after  night?  And  then  year 
after  year.  Always  a  little  older,  a  little  more  diffi- 
cult. Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  live  with  an  old  man 
when  you  are  young,  as  I  was  young  once,  to  live 
always  with  old  age  and  never  with  youth,  and  to 
watch  your  own  youth  gradually  creeping  up  to  join 
his  old  age?  Ah,  but  I  was  doing  it  for  Blayds,  for 
the  sake  of  his  immortal  poetry.  (She  laughs — such  a 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        165 

laugh.)  And  look  at  me  now,  all  wasted.  The  wife  I 
might  have  been,  the  mother  I  might  have  been.  How 
beautiful  the  world  was,  all  those  years  ago! 

( They  say  nothing,  for  there  is  nothing  to  say. 
Isobcl  looks  in  front  of  her  seeing  nothing. 
Suddenly  a  barrel  organ  begins  playing  in 
the  street  outside,  dreamily,  wistfully,  the 
waltz  of  eighteen  years  ago.  Isabel  remem- 
bers and  with  a  sob,  drops  her  face  into  her 
hands.  Very  gently  the  others  go  out,  leav- 
ing her  there  with  her  memories,  .  ,  ) 


ACT  III 

Afternoon,  three  days  later.  Royce  is  at  the  desk,  at 
work  on  a  statement  for  publication.  He  has 
various  documents  at  hand,  to  which  he  refers 
from  time  to  time.  Oliver  comes  in. 

Oliver:    Hullo! 

Royce:     (Without  looking  up.}     Hullo! 

Oliver:  (After  waiting  hopefully.)  Very  busy! 
(He  sits  down.) 

Royce:    Yes. 

Oliver:    Where  is  everybody? 

Royce:    About  somewhere. 

Oliver:  Oh!  .  .  .  I've  been  away  for  a  couple  of 
days.  My  chief  made  a  speech  at  Bradford.  My  God ! 
Just  for  my  benefit  he  dragged  in  a  reference  to  Oliver 
Blayds.  Also  "My  God." 

Royce:  (Realising  suddenly  that  somebody  is  talk- 
ing.) Oh!  (He  goes  on  u'itJi  his  work.) 

Oliver:    Yes,  you  seem  quite  excited  about  it. 

Royce:  Sorry,  but  I've  really  got  rather  a  lot  to  do, 
and  not  too  much  time  to  do  it  in. 

Oliver:  Oh!  .  .  .  You  won't  mind  my  asking,  but 
are  you  living  in  the  house  ? 

Royce:    Practically.     For  the  last  three  days. 

Oliver:  Oh,  I  say,  are  you  really?  I  was  being 
sarcastic — as  practised  by  the  best  politicians. 

Royce:    Don't  mention  it. 

Oliver:     What's  happened? 

106 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        167 

Royce:  Miss  Blayds  asked  me  to  help  her.  As  you 
know,  she  is  executor  to  Blayds.  Of  course  your 
father  is  helping  too,  but  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  done. 

Oliver:  I  see.  ( Awkwardly.}  I  say,  I  suppose 
you — I  mean  has  she — I  mean,  what  about 

Royce:    Miss  Blayds  has  told  me. 

Oliver:     Oh!     Nobody  else  yet? 

Royce:    No. 

Oliver:  I've  been  rushing  for  the  papers  every  morn- 
ing expecting  to  see  something  about  it. 

Royce:  We  want  to  get  everything  in  order  first — 
the  financial  side  of  it  as  well  as  the  other — and  then 
make  a  plain  straight-forward  statement  of  what  has 
happened  and  what  we  propose  to  do. 

Oliver:  Yes,  of  course  you  can't  just  write  to  the 
Times  and  say:  "Dear  Sir,  Blayds'  poetry  was 
written  by  Jenkins,  yours  faithfully"  .  .  .  When  will 
it  be,  do  you  think? 

Royce:    We  ought  to  have  it  ready  by  tomorrow. 

Oliver:  I  I'm  .  .  .  Then  I  had  better  start  looking 
for  a  job  at  once. 

Royce:    Nonsense! 

Oliver:  It  isn't  nonsense.  What  do  you  think  my 
chief  will  want  me  for,  if  I'm  not  Blayds  the  poet's 
grandson  ? 

Royce:    Your  intrinsic  qualities. 

Oliver:  I'm  afraid  they  are  not  intrinsic  enough 
in  the  present  state  of  the  market. 

Royce:  Well,  you  said  you  wanted  to  be  a  motor 
engineer — now's  your  chance. 

Oliver:  Helpful  fellow,  Royce.  Now,  as  he  says, 
is  my  chance.  (There  is  a  pause  and  then  he  says  sud- 
denly.) I  say,  what  do  you  think  about  it  all? 


i68       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:  What  do  you  mean,  think  about  it  all? 
What  is  there  to  think?  One  tries  not  to  think.  It's 
— shattering. 

Oliver:  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean — do  you 
really  think  he  did  it? 

Royce:    Did  what? 

Oliver:    Did  it.    Did  Jenkins. 

Royce:  I  don't  understand,  is  there  any  doubt  about 
it? 

Oliver:  Well,  that's  just  it  ...  The  fact  is,  I  had 
a  brain  wave  at  Bradford. 

Royce:    Oh? 

Oliver:  Yes.  I  said,  "By  Jove!  Of  course!  That's 
it!" 

Royce:    What's  what? 

Oliver:  He  never  did  it!  He  just  imagined  it!  It 
was  all — what  wras  the  word  I  used? 

Royce:     Hallucination? 

Oliver:  Hallucination.  (He  nods.}  That's  the 
word.  I  wrote  to  father  last  night.  I  said,  "Hallucin- 
ation." You  can  back  it  both  ways,  Royce,  and  you 
won't  be  far  out. 

Royce:  Yes,  I  can  see  how  attractive  the  word  must 
have  looked — up  at  Bradford. 

Oliver:    You  don't  think  it  looks  so  well  down  here? 

Royce:    I'm  afraid  not. 

Oliver:  Well,  why  not?  Which  is  more  probable, 
that  Oliver  Blayds  carried  out  this  colossal  fraud  for 
more  than  sixty  years,  or  that  when  he  was  an  old 
man  of  ninety  his  brain  wobbled  a  bit,  and  he  started 
imagining  things? 

Royce:    (Shaking  his  head  regretfully.}     No. 
Oliver:     It's  all  very  well  to  say  "No."     Anybody 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        169 

can  say  "No."  As  the  Old  Man  said  yesterday,  you 
refuse  to  face  the  facts,  Royce.  Look  at  all  the  Will 
cases  you  see  in  the  papers.  Whenever  an  old  gentle- 
man over  seventy  leaves  his  money  to  anybody  but  his 
loving  nephews  and  nieces,  they  always  bring  an  action 
to  prove  that  he  can't  have  been  quite  right  in  the  head 
when  he  died;  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  they  win. 
Well,  Blayds  was  ninety. 

Royce:  Yes,  but  I  thought  he  left  you  a  thousand 
pounds. 

Oliver:  Well,  I  suppose  that  was  a  lucid  interval 
.  .  .  Look  here,  you  think  it  over  seriously.  I  read  a 
book  once  about  a  fellow  who  stole  another  man's  novel. 
Perhaps  Blayds  read  it  too  and  got  it  mixed  up.  Why 
not  at  that  age?  Or  perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  using 
the  idea  himself.  And  turning  it  over  and  over  in  his 
mind,  living  with  it,  so  to  speak,  day  and  night,  he 
might  very  easily  begin  to  think  that  it  was  something 
that  had  happened  to  himself.  At  his  age.  And  then 
on  his  death-bed,  feeling  that  he  must  confess  some- 
thing— thoroughly  muddled,  poor  old  fellow — well, 
you  see  how  easily  it  might  happen.  Hallucination. 

Royce:  (Regarding  him  admiringly.}  You  know. 
Oliver,  I  think  you  underrate  your  intrinsic  qualities 
as  a  politician.  You  mustn't  waste  yourself  on  engi- 
neering. 

Oliver:  Thanks  very  much.  I  suppose  Father 
hasn't  mentioned  the  word  "hallucination"  to  you  yet? 

Royce:    No,  not  yet. 

Oliver:    Perhaps  he  hadn't  got  my  letter  this  morn- 
ing.   But  it's  worth  thinking  about,  it  is  really. 
Royce:     (Hard  at  it  again.}     Yes,  I  am  sure  it  is. 

Oliver:    You  know 

Royce:    You  know,  Oliver,  I'm  really  very  busy. 


170       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Oliver:  (Getting  up.)  Oh,  all  right.  And  I  want 
a  wash  anyway.  Is  Father  in  his  study? 

Royce:  Yes.  Also  very  busy.  If  you  really  are 
going,  I  wish  you'd  see  if  Miss  Blayds  could  spare  me 
a  moment. 

Oliver:  Right.  (Turning  to  the  door  and  seeing 
Isabel  come  in.)  She  can.  Hallo,  Aunt  Isobel! 

Isabel:  I  thought  I  heard  your  voice.  Did  you 
have  an  interesting  time? 

Oliver:  Rather!  I  was  telling  Royce.  (He  takes 
her  hand  and  pats  it  kindly.)  And  I  say,  it's  all  right. 
Quite  all  right.  (He  kisses  her  hand.)  Believe  me, 
it's  going  to  be  absolutely  all  right.  You  see.  (He 
pats  her  hand  soothingly  and  goes  out.) 

Isobel:     (Rather  touched.)     Dear  boy! 

Royce:    Yes,  Oliver  has  a  great  future  in  politics. 

Isobel:    (Going  to  the  sofa.)    I'm  tired. 

Royce:  You've  been  doing  too  much.  Sit  down 
and  rest  a  little. 

Isobel:  (Sitting.)  No,  go  on.  I  shan't  disturb 
you? 

Royce:    Talk  to  me.  I've  worked  quite  enough  too. 

Isobel:    Shall  we  be  ready  by  tomorrow? 

Royce:    I  think  so. 

Isobel:  I  want  to  be  rid  of  it — to  get  it  out  of  my 
head  where  it  just  goes  round  and  round.  It  will  be 
a  relief  when  the  whole  world  knows.  (With  a  little 
smile. )  What  a  sensation  for  them ! 

Royce:    Yes.     (Also  smiling.)     Isn't  it  funny  how 
that  comes  in? 
Isobel:    What? 

Royce:  The  excitement  at  the  back  of  one's  mind 
when  anything  unusual  happens,  however  disastrous. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        171 

Isabel:    (Smiling.'}     Did  I  sound  very  excited? 

Royce:     You  sounded  alive  for  the  first  time. 

Isabel:  These  last  two  days  have  helped  me.  It 
has  been  a  great  comfort  to  have  you  here.  It  was 
good  of  you  to  come. 

Roycc:    But  of  course  I  came. 

Isabel:  I  was  looking  up  Who's  Who  for  an 
address,  and  I  went  on  to  your  name — you  know  how 
one  does.  I  hadn't  realised  you  were  so  famous  or  so 
busy.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come  .  .  .  Your  wife 
died? 

Royce:    (Surprised.}    Yes. 

Isabel:    I  didn't  know. 

Royce:    Ten  years  ago.     Surely 

Isabel:  Is  there  a  special  manner  of  a  man  whose 
wife  died  ten  years  ago  which  I  ought  to  have  recog- 
nised? 

Royce:  (Laughing.}  Well,  no.  But  one  always 
feels  that  a  fact  with  which  one  has  lived  for  years 
must  have  impressed  itself  somehow  on  others. 

Isabel:     I  didn't  know  .... 

Royce:  (Suddenly.}  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you 
that  you  were  quite  wrong  not  to  take  any  of  this 
money. 

Isabel:    Am  I  "quite  wrong?" 

Royce:  (Shaking  his  head.}  No.  That's  why  it's 
so  hopeless  my  trying  to  persuade  you  .  .  .  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ? 

Isabel:     (Rather  sadly.}     Aren't  I  a  "born  nurse?" 

Royce:    You  tied  my  hand  up  once. 

Isabel:  (Smiling.}  Well,  there  you  are  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  daresay  it's  just  pride,  but  somehow  I  can't  take  the 
money.  The  others  can;  you  were  right  about  thai — 


172       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

I  was  wrong;  but  they  have  not  been  so  near  to  him 
as  I  have  ...  I  thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an 
end  at  first.  But  now 

Roycc:     But  now  you  don't. 

Isabel:  No.  I  don't  know  why.  How  hopeful 
we  are.  How — unbreakable.  If  I  were  God,  I  should 
be  very  proud  of  Man. 

Roycc:    Let  Him  go  on  being  proud  of  you. 

Isabel:  Oh,  I'm  tough.  You  can't  be  a  nurse  with- 
out being  tough.  I  shan't  break. 

Royce:    And  just  a  smile  occasionally? 

Isabel:  (Smiling  adorably.}  And  even  perhaps 
just  a  smile  occasionally? 

Royce:     Thank  you. 

(William  comes  in  fussily.  But  there  is  a  sup- 
pressed air  of  excitement  about  liini.  He 
has  Oliver's  letter  in  his  hand.) 

William:  Isobel,  there  are  two  pass-books  miss- 
ing— two  of  the  early  ones.  I  thought  you  had  found 
them  all.  You  haven't  seen  them,  Mr.  Royce? 

Royce:    No,  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  them. 

William:  You  found  most  of  the  early  ones  in  the 
bottom  drawer  of  his  desk,  you  told  me. 

Isabel:  (Getting  up.}  I  may  have  overlooked  one; 
I'll  go  and  see.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  rubbish 
there. 

Royce:     Can't  I? 

Isobel:  Would  you?  You  know  where.  Thank 
you  so  much. 

Royce:     (Going.}     Right. 

William:  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Royce,  I'm 
sorry  to  trouble  you. 

(There  is  a  little  silence  after  Royce  is  gone. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        173 

Isabel  is  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  not 
quite  such  unhappy  ones  now;  William  is 
nervous  and  excited.  After  much  polishing 
of  his  glasses  he  begins. ) 

William:    Isobel,  I  have  been  thinking  very  deeply 
of  late  about  this  terrible  business. 
Isobel:    Yes? 

William:  (Going' to  the  desk.)  Is  this  the  state- 
ment? 

Isobel:    Is  it? 

William:  (Glancing  over  it.)  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  I've 
been  wondering  if.  we've  been  going  too  far. 

Isobel:    About  the  money? 

William :  No,  no.  No,  no,  I  wasn't  thinking  about 
the  money. 

Isobel:    What  then? 

William:  Well  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  I'm  wondering 
.  .  .  Can  we  feel  quite  certain  that  if  we  make  this 
announcement — can  we  feel  quite  certain  that  we  are 
not — well — going  too  far? 

Isobel:    You  mean  about  the  money? 

William:    No,  no,  no,  no. 

Isobel:    Then  what  else?    I  don't  understand. 

William:  Suppose — I  only  say  suppose — it  were 
not  true.  I  mean,  can  we  be  so  certain  that  it  is  true  ? 
You  see,  once  we  make  this  announcement  it  is  then 
too  late.  We  cannot  contradict  it  afterwards  and  say 
that  we  have  made  a  mistake.  It  is  irrevocable. 

Isobel:  (Hardly  able  to  believe  it.)  Are  you  sug- 
gesting that  we  should — hush  it  up? 

William:  Now  you  are  putting  words  into  my 
mouth  that  I  have  not  yet  used.  I  say  that  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me,  thinking  things  over  very  earnestly,  that 


174       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

possibly  we  are  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  believe  this 
story  of — er — this  Jenkins  story. 

Isabel:  You  mean  that  I  have  invented  it,  dreamed 
it,  imagined  it ? 

William:  No,  no,  no,  no,  please.  It  would  never 
occur  to  me  to  suggest  any  such  thing.  What  I  do 
suggest  as  a  possibility  worth  considering  is  that 
Oliver  Blayds — er — imagined  it. 

Isabel:  You  mean  he  thought  it  was  the  other 
man's  poetry  when  it  was  really  his  own? 

William:  You  must  remember  that  he  was  a  very 
old  man.  I  was  saying  to  Marion  in  this  very  room, 
talking  over  what  I  understood  then  to  be  his  last  wish 
for  a  simple  funeral,  that  the  dying  words  of  an  old 
man  were  not  to  be  taken  too  seriously.  Indeed,  I 
used  on  that  occasion  this  actual  phrase,  "An  old  man, 
his  faculties  rapidly  going."  I  repeat  the  phrase.  I 
say  again  that  an  old  man,  his  faculties  rapidly  going, 
may  have  imagined  this  story.  In  short,  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  the  whole  thing  may  very  well  be— 
hallucination. 

Isabel:  (Looking  at  him  fixedly.)  Or  self-decep 
tion. 

William:  (Misunderstanding  her.)  Exactly.  Well, 
in  short,  I  suggest  there  never  was  anybody  called 
Jenkins. 

Isabel:  (Brightly — after  a  pause.}  Wouldn't  it  be 
nice? 

William.  One  can  understand  how  upon  his  death- 
bed a  man  feels  the  need  of  confession,  of  forgiveness 
and  absolution.  It  may  well  be  that  Oliver  Blayds,  in- 
stinctively feeling  this  need,  bared  his  soul  to  you,  not 
of  some  real  misdeed  of  his  own,  but  of  some  im- 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        175 

aginary  misdeed  with  which,  by  who  knows  what 
association  of  ideas,  his  mind  had  become  occupied. 

Isabel:  You  mean  he  meant  to  confess  to  a  mur- 
der or  something,  and  got  muddled. 

William:  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  attribute  any 
misdeed  to  so  noble,  so  knightly  a  man  as  Oliver 
Blayds. 

Isabel:    Knightly? 

William:  I  am  of  course  assuming  that  this  man 
Jenkins  never  existed. 

Isabel:    Oh,  you  are  assuming  that? 

William:  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  plain 
it  becomes  to  me  that  we  must  assume  it. 

Isabel:  Yes,  I  quite  see  that  the  more  one  thinks 
of  it,  the  more — (She  indicates  the  rest  of  the  sentence 
i^'ith  her  fingers.) 

William:  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  sugges- 
tion? 

Isabel:  It's  so  obvious  that  I'm  wondering  why  it 
didn't  occur  to  you  before. 

William:    The  truth  is  I  was  stunned. 
Isabel:    Oh,  yes. 

William:  And  then,  I  confess,  the  fact  of  the  1863 
volume  seemed  for  the  moment  conclusive. 

Isabel:    But  now  it  doesn't? 

William:  I  explain  it  now,  as  one  always  explained 
it  when  he  was  alive.  Every  great  poet  has  these 
lapses. 

Isabel:  Oh!  (She  is  silent,  looking  at  William 
wonderingly,  almost  admiringly.) 

William:   (After  waiting  for  her  comment.)   Well? 

Isabel:  What  can  I  say,  William,  except  again  how 
nice  it  will  be?  No  scandal,  no  poverty,  no  fuss,  and 


1 76       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

his  life  in  two  volumes  just  as  before.  We  are  a  little 
too  late  for  the  Abbey,  but,  apart  from  that,  everything 
is  as  nice  as  it  can  be. 

William:  (Solemnly.)  You  have  not  mentioned 
the  best  thing  of  all,  Isobel. 

Isabel:     What? 

William:  That  our  faith  in  him  has  not  been  mis- 
placed. 

(She  looks  at  him,  not  knowing  whether  to 
laugh  or  to  cry.) 

Isobel:  Oh  ...  oh  ...  (But  there  are  no  words 
available. ) 

(Marion  comes  in.) 

Marion:  (Excitedly.)  Isobel  dear,  have  you 
heard?  Have  you  heard  the  wonderful  news? 

Isobel:    (Turning  to  her  blankly.)     News? 

Marion:  About  the  hallucination.  I  always  felt 
that  there  must  have  been  some  mistake.  And  now 
our  faith  has  been  justified — as  faith  always  is.  It's 
such  a  comfort  to  know.  Really  to  know  at  last. 
Poor  dear  Grandfather!  He  was  so  very  old.  I 
think  sometimes  we  forget  how  very  old  he  was.  And 
the  excitement  of  that  last  day — his  birthday — and 
perhaps  the  glass  of  port.  No  wonder. 

William:  (Shaking  his  head  wisely.)  Very  strange, 
very  strange,  but  as  you  say  not  unexpected.  One 
might  almost  have  predicated  some  such  end. 

Marion:  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  having 
doubted.  (To  Isobel.)  I  think  Grandfather  will  for- 
give us,  dear.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  wherever  he 
is,  he  will  forgive  us. 

William:  (Nodding.)  Yes,  yes  ...  I  shall  say 
nothing  about  it  in  the  book,  of  course — this  curious 
lapse  in  his  faculties  at  the  last. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        177 

Marion:    Of  course  not,  dear. 

Isabel:    Then  you  won't  want  that  pass-book  now? 

Marion:     Pass-book  ? 

Isabel:  Yes.  You  were  going  into  the  accounts, 
weren't  you,  to  see  how  much 

William:  (To  Marion.)  Oh — ah — yes,  the  Jen- 
kins Fund. 

Marion:  But  of  course  there  is  no  Jenkins  now! 
So  there  can't  be  a  Jenkins  Fund.  Such  a  comfort 
from  every  point  of  view. 

Isabel:  (To  William.)  You're  quite  happy  about 
the  money,  then? 

William:  (Who  obviously  isn't.)  Er — yes — I 
.  .  .  That  is  to  say,  that,  while  absolutely  satisfied 
that  this  man  Jenkins  never  existed,  I — at  the  same 
time — I — well,  perhaps  to  be  on  the  safe  side — there 
are  certain  charities  ...  As  I  say,  there  are  certain 
charities  for  distressed  writers  and  so  on,  and  perhaps 
one  would  feel — you  see  what  I  mean.  (He  goes  to 
the  desk.) 

Isabel:  Yes.  It's  what  they  call  conscience-money, 
isn't  it? 

William:  (Not  hearing.)  But  of  course  all  that 
can  be  settled  later.  (He  picks  up  Royce's  statement.) 
The  main  point  is  that  this  will  not  now  be  wanted. 
(He  prepares  to  tear  it  in  two.) 

Isabel:     (Fiercely.}     No!    Put  that  down! 

(Startled  he  puts  it  down,  and  she  snatches  it 
up  and  holds  it  close  to  her  heart.) 

Marion:    Isobel,  dear! 

Isabel:  It's  his,  and  you're  not  to  touch  it !  He  has 
given  his  time  to  it,  and  you're  not  going  to  throw 
it  away  as  if  it  were  nothing.  It's  for  him  to  say. 


178       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

William:    (Upset.)     Really!    I  was  only  just 

(Royce  comes  in.} 

Royce:     (Excitedly.}     I  say! 

Isabel:  Mr.  Royce,  we  have  some  news  for  you. 
We  have  decided  that  the  man  Jenkins  never  existed. 
Isn't  it  nice? 

Royce:    Never  existed? 

Isabel:  He  was  just  an  hallucination.  (To 
William.}  Wasn't  that  the  word? 

Royce:  (Laughing.}  Oh,  I  see.  That's  rather 
funny.  For  what  do  you  think  I've  got  here!  (He 
holds  up  a  faded  piece  of  paper.}  Stuck  in  this  old 
pass-book.  Jenkins'  will. 

William :    (  Staggered. }     O-o-o-o-oh ! 

Marion:  (Bewildered.}  It  must  be  another  Jen- 
kins. Because  we've  just  decided  that  our  one  never 
lived. 

Isabel:    What  is  it?    What  does  it  say? 

Royce:  (Reading.}  "To  Oliver  Blayds  who  has 
given  me  everything  I  leave  everything."  And  then 
underneath,  "God  bless  you,  dear  Oliver." 

Isabel:     (Moved.}     Oh! 

William:    Let  me  look.     (He  takes  it.} 

Isabel:    (To  herself.}    All  those  years  ago! 

William:  Yes,  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  (He  gives 
the  paper  back  to  Royce.}  Wait!  Let  me  think. 
(He  sits  down,  head  in  hands.} 

Royce:  (To  Marion.}  Well,  that  settles  the  money 
side  of  it,  anyway.  Whatever  should  have  been  the 
other  man's  came  rightfully  to  Oliver  Blayds. 

Isabel:    Except  the  immortality. 

Royce:  Ah,  yes.  I  say  nothing  of  that.  (Going 
to  the  desk  and  picking  up  his  statement.}  I  shall  have 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        179 

to  re- write  this  .  .  .  Well,  the  first  part  can  stand 
...  I'm  glad  we  aren't  going  to  be  bothered  about 
money.  It  would  have  been  an  impossible  business  to 
settle. 

William:     (Triumphantly.)     I've  got  it! 
Marion:    What,  dear? 
William:    Now  I  understand  everything. 
Royce:    What? 

William:  The  1863  volume.  That  always  puzzled 
me.  Now  at  last,  we  have  the  true  explanation. 
(Dramatically.)  The  1863  volume  was  written  by 
Jenkins ! 

(Isabel  and  Royce  look  at  him  in  amazement; 

Marion  in  admiration.) 
Royce:     (To  himself.)     Poor  old  Jenkins. 
Marion:    Of  course  I  liked  all  grandfather's  poetry. 
There  was  some  of  it  I  didn't  understand,  but  I  felt 
that  he  knew 

William:  No,  we  can  be  frank  now.  The  1863 
volume  was  bad.  And  now  we  see  why.  He  wished 
to  give  this  dear  dead  friend  of  his  a  chance.  I  can 
see  these  two  friends — Oliver — and — er — (Going  to 
Royce)  What  was  Mr — er — Jenkins'  other  name? 
(He  reads  it  over  Royce' s  shoulder.)  Ah,  yes,  Wil- 
loughby — I  can  see  that  last  scene  when  Willoughby 
lay  dying,  and  his  friend  Oliver  stood  by  his  side.  I 
can  hear  Willoughby  lamenting  that  none  of  his  poetry 
will  ever  be  heard  now  in  the  mouths  of  others — and 
Oliver's  silent  resolve  that  in  some  way,  at  some  time, 
Willoughby's  work  shall  be  given  to  the  world.  And 
so  in  1863,  when  his  own  position  was  firmly  estab- 
lished, he  issues  this  little  collection  of  his  dead  friend's 
poetry,  these  few  choicest  sheaves  from  poor  Wil- 
loughby's indiscriminate  harvest,  sheltering  them,  as 


i8o        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

he  hoped,  from  the  storm  of  criticism  with  the  mantle 
of  his  own  great  name.  A  noble  resolve,  a  chivalrous 
undertaking,  but  alas!  of  no  avail. 

Royce:  You  will  say  this  in  your  life  of  Oliver 
Blayds? 

William:  I  shall — er — hint  at  the  doubtful  author- 
ship of  the  1863  volume;  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
not  to  go  into  the  matter  too  fully. 

Marion:  (To  Isabel.)  It  would  be  much  nicer, 
dear,  if  we  didn't  refer  to  any  of  the  unhappy  thoughts 
which  we  have  all  had  about  Grandfather  in  the  last 
few  days.  We  know  now  that  we  never  ought  to  have 
doubted.  He  was — Grandfather. 

Isabel:    (After  a  pause,  to  Royce.)    Well? 
(He  shrugs  his  shoulders.) 

Will  you  find  the  children?  I  think  they  ought  to 
know  this. 

Royce:    Right.    Do  you  want  me  to  come  back? 

I  sob  el:    Please. 

(He  goes  out.     When  he  has  gone,  she  turns 
to  William.) 

I  am  going  to  publish  the  truth  about  Oliver  Blayds. 

Marion:    But  that's  what  we  all  want  to  do,  dear. 

William:    What  do  you  mean  by  the  truth? 

Isobel:  What  we  all  know  to  be  the  truth  in  our 
hearts. 

William:  I  deny  it.  I  deny  it  utterly.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  explanation  which  I  have  given  is  the 
true  one. 

Isabel:  Then  I  shall  publish  the  explanation  which 
he  gave  me. 

William:    Isobel,  I  should  have  thought  that  you, 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        181 

of  all  people,  would  have  wanted  to  believe  in  Oliver 
Blayds. 

Isabel:  Wanted  to!  If  only  "wanting  to"  were  the 
same  as  believing,  how  easy  life  would  be! 

Marion:  It  is  very  nearly  the  same,  dear.  If  you 
try  very  hard.  I  have  found  it  a  great  comfort. 

William:  I  must  beg  you  to  reconsider*  your  de- 
cision. I  had  the  honour  of  the  friendship  of  Oliver 
Blayds  for  many  years,  and  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I 
will  not  allow  this  slander  of  a  dead  man  to  pass  un- 
challenged. 

Isabel:    Which  dead  man? 

William:  (A  little  upset.)  This  slander  on  Oliver 
Blayds. 

Isabel:  It  is  not  slander.  I  shall  tell  the  truth  about 
him. 

William:    Then  I  shall  tell  the  truth  about  him  too. 
(Isabel  turns  away  ifith  a  shrug,  and  sees  Sep- 

tima,  Royce  and  Oliver  coming  in.) 
Isabel:    Thank  you,  Mr.  Royce.    Septima,  Oliver — 

(She  gives  them  the  will  to  read.) 
Oliver:     (After  reading.)     By  Jove!     Sportsman! 
I  always  said — (Frankly.)     No,  I  didn't. 

Septima:  (After  reading.)  Good.  Well,  that's 
all  right  then. 

Isabel:  We  have  been  talking  over  what  I  told  you 
the  other  day,  and  your  Father  now  has  a  theory,  that 
it  was  the  1863  volume  which  was  written  by  this 
man,  and  that  your  Grandfather  in  telling  me  the 
story  had  got  it  into  his  head  somehow 

William:  A  very  old  man,  his  faculties  rapidly  go- 
ing  

Isabel:    Had  muddled  the  story  up. 


1 82       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Oliver:  (Brightening  up.}  Good  for  you,  Father! 
I  see!  Of  course!  Then  it  was  hallucination  after 
all? 

Isabel:    You  had  discussed  it  before? 

Oliver:    Oh,  rather! 

Isabel:     (To  Septima.}     And  you? 

Oliver:    I  told  Septima  the  idea. 

Isabel:    And  what  does  Septima  say? 
They  All  turn  to  her. 

Septima:     (Emphatically.}     Rot! 

Marion:     (Shocked.}     Septima!     Your  father! 

Septima:  Well,  you  asked  me  what  I  said,  and  I'm 
telling  you.  Rot.  R-O-T. 

William:  (Coldly.}  Kindly  explain  yourself  a  lit- 
tle more  lucidly. 

Oliver:     It's  all  rot  saying  "rot" 

William:    One  at  a  time,  please.    Septima? 

Septima:  I  think  it's  rot,  trying  to  deceive  our- 
selves by  making  up  a  story  about  Grandfather,  just 
because  we  don't  like  the  one  which  he  told  Aunt 
Isobel.  What  does  it  all  matter  anyhow?  There's 
the  poetry,  and  jolly  good  too,  most  of  it.  What  does 
it  matter  when  you've  quoted  it,  whether  you  add,  "As 
Blayds  nobly  said"  or  "As  Jenkins  nobly  said"?  It's 
the  same  poetry.  There  was  Grandfather.  We  all 
knew  him  well,  and  we  all  had  plenty  of  chances  of 
making  up  our  minds  about  him.  How  can  what  he 
did  seventy  years  ago,  when  he  was  another  person 
altogether,  make  any  difference  to  our  opinion  of  him  ? 
And  then  there's  the  money.  I  said  that  it  ought  to 
be  ours,  and  it  is  ours.  Well,  there  we  are. 

William:     You  are  quite  content  that  your  Aunt 
should  publish,  as  she  proposes  to,  this  story  of — er— 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        183 

Willoughby  Jenkins,  which  I  am  convinced  is  a  base 
libel  on  the  reputation  of  Oliver  Blayds? 

Oliver:  I  say,  Aunt  Isobel,  are  you  really  going 
to?  I  mean  do  you  still  believe 

Isobel:    I  am  afraid  I  do,  Oliver. 
Oliver:     Good  Lord! 
William :    Well — Septima  ? 

Septima:  I  am  quite  content  with  the  truth.  And 
if  you  want  the  truth  about  Septima  Blayds-Conway, 
it  is  that  the  truth  about  Blayds  is  not  really  any  great 
concern  of  hers. 

Oliver:  Well,  that's  a  pretty  selfish  way  of  looking 
at  it. 

Marion:  I  don't  know  what  Grandfather  would 
say  if  he  could  hear  you. 

Isobel:  Thank  you,  Septima.  You're  honest  any- 
how. 

Septima:    Well,  of  course. 

Oliver:  It's  all  very  well  for  her  to  talk  like  that, 
but  it's  a  jolly  big  concern  of  mine.  If  it  comes  out, 
I'm  done.  As  a  politician  anyway. 

Royce:    What  do  you  believe,  Oliver? 

Oliver:  I  told  you.  Hallucination.  At  least  it 
seems  just  as  likely  as  the  other.  And  that  being  so, 
I  think  we  ought  to  give  it  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
What  is  the  truth  about  Blayds — I  don't  know 

Isobel:     (Calmly.}     I  do,  Oliver. 

William:     (Sharply.}     So  do  I. 

Oliver:  Well,  I  mean,  there  you  are.  Probably 
the  truth  lies  somewhere  in  between 

Royce:  (With  a  smile,  speaking  almost  uncon- 
sciously.) No,  no,  you  mustn't  waste  yourself  on  en- 


gineering.     (Recovering  himself  with  a  start.)     I  beg 
your  pardon. 

Oliver:  Anyway,  I'm  with  Father.  I  don't  think 
we  ought  to  take  the  risk  of  doing  Oliver  Blayds  an 
injustice  by  saying  anything  about  this — this  hal- 
lucination. 

William:  There  is  no  question  of  risk.  It's  a  cer- 
tainty. Come,  Marion.  (He  leads  the  way  to  the 
door.)  We  have  much  to  do.  (Challengingly.)  We 
have  much  work  yet  to  do  upon  the  life  of  this  great 
poet,  this  great  and  chivalrous  gentleman,  Oliver 
Blayds! 

Marion:     (Meekly.)     Yes,  dear. 
(They  go  out.) 

Oliver:  Oh,  Lord,  a  family  row!  I'm  not  sure 
that  that  isn't  worse  .  .  .  "Interviewed  by  our  repre- 
sentative, Mr.  Oliver  Blayds-Conway  said  that  he  pre- 
ferred not  to  express  an  opinion."  I  think  that's  my 
line. 

Septima:    Yes,  it  would  be. 

Oliver:  Well,  I  must  go.  (Grandly.)  We  have 
much  work  yet  to  do  ...  Coming,  Tim? 

Septima:  (Getting  up.)  Yes.  (She  goes  slowly 
after  him,  hesitates,  and  then  comes  back  to  Isabel. 
Awkwardly  she  touches  her  shoulders  and  says.) 
Good  luck! 

(Then  she  goes  out. 

Royce,  and  Isabel  stand  looking  at  each  other. 
First  he  begins  to  smile;  then  she.  Sud- 
denly they  are  both  laughing.) 

Isabel:     How  absurd! 

Royce:  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  appreciate  it. 
Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do? 

Isabel:    What  can  I  do  but  tell  the  world  the  truth? 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        185 

Royce:  H'm!  I  wonder  if  the  world  will  be  grate- 
ful. 

Isabel:  Does  that  matter? 

Royce:  Yes,  I  think  it  does.  I  think  you  ought  to 

feel  that  you  are  benefiting  somebody — other  than 
yourself. 

Isabel:  (With  a  smile.)  1  am  hardly  benefiting 
myself. 

Royce:  Not  materially,  of  course — but  spiritually? 
Aren't  you  just  easing  your  conscience? 

Isabel:  I  don't  see  why  the  poor  thing  shouldn't 
be  eased. 

Royce:    At  the  other  people's  expense? 

Isabel:  Oh,  but  no,  Austin,  no.  I'm  sure  that's 
wrong.  Surely  the  truth  means  more  than  that. 
Surely  it's  an  end  in  itself.  The  only  end.  Call  it 
Truth  or  call  it  Beauty,  it's  all  we're  here  for. 

Royce:  You  know,  the  trouble  is  that  the  Truth 
about  Blayds  won't  seem  very  beautiful.  There's 
your  truth,  and  then  there's  William's  truth,  too.  To 
the  public  it  will  seem  not  so  much  like  Beauty  as  like 
an  undignified  family  squabble.  No,  it's  no  good.  You 
can't  start  another  miserable  Shakespeare-Bacon  con- 
troversy. Because  that  is  what  it  would  be  in  a  few 
years.  There  would  be  no  established  truth,  but  just 
a  Jenkins'  theory.  All  that  the  man  in  the  street 
would  gather  of  it  would  be  that  years  ago  a  thief 
called  Jenkins  had  tried  to  steal  Blayds'  poetry.  Hadn't 
we  better  just  leave  him  with  the  poetry? 

Isabel:  It  seems  so  unfair  that  this  poor  dead  ooy 
should  be  robbed  of  the  immortality  which  he  wanted. 

Royce:  Hasn't  he  got  it?  There  are  his  works. 
Didn't  he  have  the  wonderful  happiness  and  pain  of 


186        The  Truth  About  Blayds 

writing  them?     How  can  you  do  anything  for  him 
now?     It's  just  pure  sentiment,  isn't  it? 

Isabel:    (Meekly.)    If  you  say  so,  sir. 

Royce:    (Laughing.}     Am  I  lecturing?    I'm  sorry. 

Isabel:  No,  I  don't  mind.  And  I  expect  you're  right. 
I  can't  do  anything.  (After  a  pause.}  Are  one's  mo- 
tives ever  pure? 

Royce:    One  hopes  so.     One  never  knows. 

Isabel:  I  keep  telling  myself  that  I  want  the  truth 
to  prevail — but  is  it  only  that  ?  Or  is  it  that  I  wanted 
to  punish  him?  .  .  .  He  hurt  me  so.  All  those  years 
he  was  pretending  that  I  helped  him.  Think  of  it. 
My  advice,  my  criticism,  my  help— and  there,  all  the 
time,  was  the  masterpiece,  written  sixty  years  ago  by 
another,  and  I  thought  that  we  were  writing  it  to- 
gether then!  It  was  all  just  a  game  to  him.  A  game 
— and  he  was  laughing.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  was 
bitter?  It  was  just  a  game  to  him. 

Royce:    As  he  said,  he  carried  it  off. 

Isabel:  Yes,  he  carried  it  off  ...  Even  in  those 
last  moments  he  was  carrying  it  off.  Just  that.  He 
was  frightened  at  first — he  was  dying ;  it  was  so  lonely 
in  the  grave;  there  was  no  audience  there;  no  one  to 
listen,  to  admire.  Only  God.  Ah,  but  when  he  had 
begun  his  story,  how  quickly  he  was  the  artist  again! 
No  fear  now,  no  remorse.  Just  the  artist  glorying  in 
his  story;  putting  all  he  knew  into  the  telling  of  it, 
making  me  see  that  dead  boy  whom  he  had  betrayed, 
so  vividly  that  I  could  have  stretched  out  my  hand 
to  him,  and  said  "Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  sorry — I  will  make 
it  all  right  for  you."  Oh,  he  had  his  qualities,  Oliver 
Blayds.  My  father,  yes;  but  somehow  he  never 
seemed  that.  A  great  man ;  a  .little  man ;  but  never 
quite  my  father. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        187 

Royce:    A  great  man,  I  think. 

Isabel:  Yes,  he  was  a  great  man,  and  he  did  less 
hurt  to  the  world  than  most  great  men  do. 

Royce:  (Picking  up  his  statement.)  Then  I  can 
tear  up  this? 

Isabel:  (After  a  little  struggle  with  herself.)  Yes! 
Let  us  bury  the  dead,  and  forget  about  them. 

(He  tears  it  up.    She  gives  a  sigh  of  relief.) 
( With  a  smile. )     There ! 

Royce:     (Coming  to  her.)     Isobel! 

Isobel:  Ah — but  she's  dead,  too.  Let's  forget 
about  her. 

Royce:    She  is  not  dead.     I  have  seen  her. 
Isobel:    When  did  you  see  her? 

Royce:  Today  I  have  seen  her.  She  peeped  out 
for  a  moment,  and  was  gone. 

Isobel:     She  just  peeped  out  to  say  good-bye  to  you. 

Royce:  (Shaking  his  head.)  No.  To  say  "How 
do  you  do"  to  me. 

Isobel:  My  dear,  she  died  eighteen  years  ago,  that 
child. 

Royce:  (Smiling.)  Then  introduce  me  to  her 
mother. 

Isobel:  (Gravely,  with  a  smile  behind  it.)  Mr. 
Royce,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  mother — thirty- 
eight,  poor  dear.  (Bowing.)  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Royce?  I  have  heard  my  daughter  speak  of  you. 

Royce:  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Bladys?  I'm  glad 
to  meet  you,  because  I  once  asked  your  daughter  to 
marry  me. 

Isobel:    (Unhappily.)     Ah,  don't,  don't! 


i88       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Royce:  (Cheerfully.)  Do  you  know  «what  she 
said?  She  said,  like  all  properly  brought  up  girls, 
"You  must  ask  my  mother."  So  now  I  ask  her — 
"Isobel's  mother,  will  you  marry  me?" 

Isabel:     Oh ! 

Royce:  Isobel  was  quite  right.  I  was  too  old  for 
her.  Look,  I'm  grey.  And  then  I've  got  a  bit  of 
rheumatism  about  me  somewhere — I  really  want  a 
nurse.  Isobel  said  you  were  a  born  nurse  .  .  .  Iso- 
bel's mother,  will  you  marry  me? 

Isobel:  It's  only  because  you  are  sorry  for  me — 
because  I'm  lonely  and  poor. 

Royce:     It's  very  selfish  of  you,  talking  like  that. 
Isobel:    Selfish? 

Royce:  Harping  on  your  loneliness.  What  about 
my  loneliness? 

Isobel:    You  aren't  lonely. 
Royce:    I  shall  be  if  you  don't  marry  me. 
Isobel:   I'm  afraid  to.     I  shall  be  so  jealous. 
Royce:    Jealous!    Of  whom? 

Isobel:  Of  that  girl  we  call  my  daughter.  You 
will  always  be  looking  for  her.  You  will  think  that 
I  shan't  see;  you  will  try  to  hide  it  from  me;  but  I 
shall  see.  Always  you  will  be  looking  for  her — and 
I  shall  see. 

Royce:    I  shall  find  her. 
Isobel:    No,  it's  too  late  now. 

Royce:  (Confidently.)  I  shall  find«her.  Not  yet, 
perhaps;  but  some  day.  Perhaps  it  will  be  on  a  day 
in  April,  when  the  primroses  are  out  between  the  wood- 
stacks,  and  there  is  a  chatter  of  rooks  in  the  tall  elms. 


The  Truth  About  Blayds        189 

Then,  a  child  again,  she  will  laugh  for  joy  of  the  clean 
blue  morning,  and  I  shall  find  her.  And  when  I  have 
found  her,  I  shall  say 

Isabel:    (Gently.)    Yes? 

Royce:  I  shall  say,  "Thank  God,  you  are  so  like 
your  mother — whom  I  love." 

Isabel:    No,  no,  it  can't  be  true. 

Royce:  It  is  true.  (Holding  out  his  hands.)  I 
want  you — not  her. 

Isabel:    Oh,  my  dear! 

(She  puts  out  her  hands  to  his.  As  he  takes 
them,  Marion  comes  in  hurriedly.  Their 
hands  drop,  and  they  stand  there,  looking 
happily  at  each  other.) 

Marion:  Isobel!  I  had  to  come  and  tell  you  how 
hurt  William  is.  Dear,  don't  you  think  you  could  be- 
lieve— just  for  William's  sake 

Isobel:  (Gently.)  It's  all  right,  dear.  I  am  not 
going  to  say  anything. 

Marion:    (Eagerly.)    You  mean  you  believe? 

William  comes  in,  and  she  rushes  to  him. 
She  believes !    She  believes ! 

Isobel  and  Royce  exchange  a  smile. 

William:  (With  satisfaction.)  Ah!  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  this.  As  regards  the  biography.  In  the 
circumstances,  since  we  are  all  agreed  as  to  the  facts, 
I  almost  think  we  might  record  the  story  of  Oliver 
Blayds'  chivalrous  attempt  to  assist  his  friend,  definitely 
assigning  to  Willoughby  Jenkins  the  1863  volume. 
(He  looks  at  them  for  approval.) 

(Marion  nods.) 


190       The  Truth  About  Blayds 

Isabel:  (Looking  demurely  at  Royce  and  then 
back  again.)  Yes,  William. 

William:  I  feel  strongly,  and  I  am  sure  you  will 
agree  with  me,  that  it  is  our  duty  to  tell  the  whole 
truth  about  that  great  man.  (Again  he  looks  to 
Marion  for  approval.  She  assents.} 

Isabel:  (Aside  to  Royce — enjoying  it  with  him.} 
Do  I  still  say,  "Yes,  William"? 

(He  swilss  and  nods.} 
Yes,  William. 

(And  so  that  is  how  the  story  will  be  handed 
down.} 


THE 

GREAT 

BROXOPP 

Four 

Chapters 

In 

His 

Life 

A 
Comedy 


191 


CHARACTERS 

BROXOPP 

NANCY,  His  Wife 

JACK,  His  Son 

SIR  ROGER  TENTERDEN 

IRIS  TENTERDEN 

HONORIA  JOHNS 

RONALD  DERWENT 

NORAH  FIELD 

BENHAM 

MARY 

ALICE 

Scene:     The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Broxopp  home  of  tht 
period. 

Twenty-four  years  pass  between  Act  I  and  Act 
II,  eighteen  months  between  Act  II  and  Act  HIt 
and  a  year  between  Act  III  and  Act  IV. 


192 


ACT  I 

Scene:  The  Great  Broxopp's  lodgings  in  Bloomsbury; 
a  humble  room  in  the  year  188 — ,  for  Broxopp 
has  only  just  begun.  He  has  been  married  for  six 
months,  and  we  see  Nancy  (the  dear)  at  work, 
while  her  husband  is  looking  for  it.  He  is  an 
advertising  agent  in  the  days  when  advertising 
agents  did  not  lunch  with  peers  and  newspaper 
proprietors.  Probably  he  would  prefer  to  call 
himself  an  "adviser  to  men  of  business."  As  we 
see  from  a  large  advertisement  on  the  wall — drawn 
and  lettered  by  hand  (Nancy's) — he  has  been 
hoping  to  advise  Spcnlow  on  the  best  way  to  sell 
his  suspenders.  Other  pieces  of  advice  decorate 
the  walls — some  accepted,  some  even  paid  for — 
and  Nancy  is  now  making  a  fair  copy  of  one  of 
them. 

Mary,  the  Broxopp's  servant — Nancy  thought 
they  could  do  without  one,  but  the  Great  Broxopp 
knew  how  she  would  love  being  called  "Yes, 
ma'am,"  and  insisted  on  it — well  then,  Mary 
comes  in. 

Nancy:     (Without  looking  up.)     Yes,  Mary? 

Mary:    It's  about  the  dinner,  ma'am. 

Nancy:  (With  a  sigh.)  Yes,  I  was  afraid  it  was. 
It  isn't  a  very  nice  subject  to  talk  about,  is  it,  Mary? 

Mary:    Well,  ma'am,  it  has  its  awkwardness  like. 

Nancy:  (After  a  pause,  but  not  very  hopefully.) 
How  is  the  joint  looking? 

193 


194  The  Great  Broxopp 

Mary:  Well,  it's  past  looking  like  anything  very 
much. 

Nancy:    Well,  there's  the  bone. 

Mary:    Yes,  there's  the  bone. 

Nancy:    (Gaily.)    Well,  there  we  are,  Mary.    Soup. 

Mary:  If  you  remember,  ma'am,  we  had  soup  yes- 
terday. 

Nancy:  (Wistfully.)  Couldn't  you — couldn't  you 
squeeze  it  again,  Mary  ? 

Mary:    It's  past  squeezing,  ma'am — in  this  world 

Nancy:  I  was  reading  in  a  book  the  other  day  about 
two  people  who  went  out  to  dinner  one  night — they 
always  dine  late  in  books,  Mary — and  ordered  a  grilled 
bone.  It  seemed  such  a  funny  thing  to  have,  when  they 
had  everything  else  to  choose  from.  I  suppose  our 
bone ? 

Mary:    Grilling  wouldn't  do  it  no  good,  ma'am. 

Nancy:  (Trying  to  be  fair.)  Well,  I  suppose  we 
mustn't  blame  it.  It  has  been  a  good  joint  to  us. 

Mary:    A  good  stayer,  as  you  might  say. 

Nancy:  Yes.  Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  get 
another. 

Mary:    Yes,  ma'am. 

Nancy:    Would  you  look  in  my  purse? 

(Mary  goes  to  the  desk  and  opens  the  purse.) 
How  much  is  there? 

Mary:    Three  coppers  and  two  stamps,  ma'am. 

Nancy:  Oh!  (Determined  to  be  brave.)  Well, 
that's  five  pence. 

Mary:    They  are  halfpenny  stamps,  ma'am. 

Nancy:  (Utterly  undone.)  Oh,  Mary!  What  a 
very  unfortunate  morning  we're  having.  (Coaxingly.) 
Well,  anyhow  it's  four  pence,  isn't  it? 


The  Great  Broxopp  195 

Mary:    Yes,  ma'am. 

Nancy:    Well,  now  what  can  we  get  for  fourpence? 

Mary:    (Stolidly.)    A  turkey. 

Nancy:  (Laughing  with  complete  happiness.)  Oh, 
Mary,  don't  be  so  gloomy  about  it.  (Collapsing  into 
laughter  again.)  Let's  have  two  turkeys — two  tup- 
penny ones. 

Mary:  It's  enough  to  make  anyone  gloomy  to  see 
a  nice  gentleman  like  Mr.  Broxopp  and  a  nice  lady  like 
yourself  starving  in  a  garret. 

Nancy:  I  don't  know  what  a  garret  is,  but  if  this 
is  one,  I  love  garrets.  And  we're  not  starving;  we've 
got  fourpence.  (Becoming  practical  again.)  What 
about  a  nice  chop? 

Mary:    It  isn't  much  for  two  of  you. 
Nancy:    Three  of  us,  Mary. 

Mary:  Oh,  I  can  do  all  right  on  bread  and  cheese, 
ma'am. 

Nancy:  Well  then,  so  can  I.  And  Jim  can  have  the 
chop.  There!  Now  let  me  get  on  with  my  work. 
(Contemptuously  to  herself  as  she  goes  on  with  her 
writing. )  Starving !  And  in  a  house  full  of  bread  and 
cheese ! 

Mary:  Mr.  Broxopp  is  not  the  sort  of  gentleman  to 
eat  a  chop  while  his  wife  is  only  eating  a  bit  of  cheese. 

Nancy:  (  With  love  in  her  voice  and  eyes.}  No,  he 
isn't!  (Proudly.)  Isn't  he  a  fine  man,  Mary? 

Mary:  Yes,  he's  a  real  gentleman  is  Mr.  Broxopp. 
It's  queer  he  doesn't  make  more  money. 

Nancy:    Well,  you  see,  he's  an  artist. 

Mary:  (Surprised.)  An  artist ?  Now  that's  funny, 
I've  never  seen  him  painting  any  of  his  pictures. 

Nancy:    I  don't  mean  that  sort »of  an  artist.    I  mean 


196  The  Great  Broxopp 

he's — (Wrinkling  her  forehead.)  Now,  how  did  he 
put  it  yesterday?  He  likes  ideas  for  their  own  sake. 
He  wants  to  educate  the  public  up  to  them.  He  doesn't 
believe  in  pandering  to  the  public  for  money.  He's 
in  advance  of  his  generation — like  all  great  artists. 

Mary:    (Hopefully.)    Yes,  ma'am. 

Nancy:  (Pointing  to  the  advertisement  of  S pen- 
low's  susprenders.)  Now,  there  you  see  what  I  mean. 
Now  that's  what  the  artist  in  Mr.  Broxopp  feels  that 
a  suspender-advertisement  ought  to  be  like.  But  Mr. 
Spenlow  doesn't  agree  with  him.  Mr.  Spenlow.  says 
it's  above  the  public's  head.  And  so  he's  rejected  Jim's 
work.  That's  the  worst  of  trying  to  work  for  a  man 
like  Mr.  Spenlow.  He  doesn't  understand  artists.  Jim 
says  that  if  he  saw  an  advertisement  like  that,  he'd  buy 
ten  pairs  at  once,  even  if  he  never  wore  anything  but 
kilts.  And  Jim  says  you  can't  work  for  men  like  that, 
and  one  day  he'll  write  advertisements  for  something 
of  his  own. 

Mary:  Lor,  ma'am!  Well,  I've  often  wondered 
myself  if  it  was  quite  decent  for  a  gentleman  like  Mr. 
Broxopp  to  write  about  things  that  aren't  generally 
spoken  of  in  ordinary  give  and  take  conversation.  But 
then 

Nancy:  (With  pretty  dignity.)  That  is  not  the 
point,  Mary.  An  artist  has  no  limitations  of  that  sort. 
And — and  you're  interrupting  me  at  my  work. 

Mary:  (Going  over  to  her  and  just  touching  her 
lightly  on  the  shoulder.}  Bless  you,  dearie,  you  are 
fond  of  him,  aren't  you  ? 

Nancy:  Oh,  I  just  love  him.  (Eagerly.)  And  he 
must  have  that  chop  to  himself,  Mary,  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do.  I'll  write  him  a  little  note  to  say  I've  been 
invited  out  to  dinner — and  who  do  you  think  is  going 
to  invite  me?  Why,  you!  And  we'll  have  our  bread 


The  Great  Broxopp  197 

and  cheese  together  in  the  kitchen.  Won't  that  be  fun  ? 
(Suddenly  looking  tragic.)  Oh! 

Mary:    What's  the  matter,  ma'am? 

Nancy:  Why,  perhaps  he'll  go  out  again  directly 
after  dinner  and  then  I  shan't  have  seen  him  all  day! 
(After  thinking  it  over.)  No,  Mary,  I  shall  have  din- 
ner with  him.  (Firmly.)  But  I  shall  say  I'm  not 
hungry. 

(There  is  a  sound  of  "whistling  on  the  stairs.) 
Listen,  there's  Jim !    Oh,  Mary,  go  quickly !    He  hasn't 
seen  me  for  such  a  long  time  and  he'll  like  to  find  me 
alone. 

Mary:  (Sympathetically.)  I  know,  ma'am.  (She 
goes  out.) 

(The  Great  Broxopp  comes  in.  He  wears  a  tail 
coat  of  the  period,  a  wide-awake  hat  and  a 
spreading  blue  tie — "The  Broxopp  tie"  as  it 
is  called  in  later  years.  He  is  twenty-five  at 
this  time,  but  might  be  any  age,  an  impetuous, 
enthusiastic,    flamboyant,    simple    creature; 
candid,  generous;  a  gentleman,  yet  with  no 
manners;  an  artist,  yet  not  without  vulgarity. 
His  beliefs  are  simple.  He  believes  in  himself 
and  Nancy;  'but  mostly  in  himself.) 
Broxopp :    ( Holding  out  his  arms. )    Nancy ! 
Nancy:    Jim!    (She  flies  into  his  arms.) 
Broxopp:     (Releasing  himself  and  looking  at  his 
watch. )    Two  hours  and  twenty  minutes  since  I  kissed 
you,  Nancy. 

Nancy:    Is  that  all?    It  seems  so  much  longer. 
Broxopp:     (Comparing  his  watch  with  the  clock.) 
You're  right;  I'm  a  little  slow.     It's  two  hours  and 
twenty-three  minutes.    I  must  have  another  one.    (Has 
one.) 


198  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:  Oh,  Jim,  darling,  it's  lovely  having  you 
back.  But  you're  early,  aren't  you?  Tell  me  what's 
been  happening. 

Broxopp:  (Trying  to  speak  indifferently.)  How  do 
you  know  anything  has  been  happening  ? 

Nancy:  (Excitedly.)  Then  it  has!  I  knew  it  had! 
I  felt  it.  Tell  me  quickly !  (  With  a  sudden  change. ) 
No,  don't  tell  me  quickly,  tell  me  very,  very  slowly. 
Begin  from  the  very  beginning  when  you  left  here  after 
breakfast.  (Pleadingly.)  Only  just  tell  me  first  that  it 
is  good  news. 

Broxopp:  (With  an  air.}  Madam,  you  see  in  front 
of  you  the  Great  Broxopp. 

Nancy.  Yes,  but  you've  told  me  that  every  day  since 
we've  been  married. 

Broxopp:  (Momentarily  shaken,  but  quickly  recov- 
ering. )  But  you  believed  it !  Say  you  believed  it ! 

Nancy:    Of  course  I  did. 

Broxopp:  (Strutting  about  the  room.}  Aha,  she 
knew!  She  recognised  the  Great  Broxopp.  (Striking 
an  attitude.}  And  now  the  whole  world  will  know. 

Nancy:   Is  it  as  wonderful  as  that ? 

Broxopp:  (Taking  her  hands.)  It  is,  Nancy,  it  is! 
I  have  been  singing  all  the  way  home.  (Seriously.) 
Nancy,  when  we  have  lots  of  money  I  think  I  shall  learn 
to  sing.  An  artist  like  myself  requires  to  give  expres- 
sion to  his  feelings  in  his  great  moments.  Several 
people  on  the  bus  objected  to  my  singing.  I'm  afraid 
they  were  right. 

Nancy:  (Awed.)  Are  we  going  to  tiave  lots  of 
money  one  day?  Oh,  quick,  tell  me — but  slowly  right 
from  the  beginning.  (She  arranges  his  chair  for  him.} 
Or  would  you  rather  walk  about,  dear? 


The  Great  Broxopp  199 

Broxopp:  (Sitting  down.}  Well,  I  shall  probably 
have  to  walk  about  directly,  but — Where  are  you  going 
to  sit? 

Nancy:    (On  the  floor  at  his  knees.)    Here. 

Broxopp:  (Earnestly.)  Nancy,  you  must  get  me 
out  of  my  habit  of  sitting  down  before  you  are  seated 
It  isn't  what  a  gentleman  would  do. 

Nancy:  (Patting  his  hand.)  It's  what  a  husband 
would  do.  That's  what  wives  are  for — to  make  their 
husbands  comfy. 

Broxopp:  Well,  dear,  never  hesitate  to  tell  me  any 
little  thing  you  notice  about  me.  I  never  drop  my 
aitches  now,  do  I? 

Nancy:    (Smiling  lovingly  at  him.)    Never,  darling. 

Broxopp:  (Complacently.)  Very  few  people  could 
have  got  out  of  that  in  a  year.  But  then  (raising  his 
hand  with  a  gesture  of  pride.)  Broxopp  is  not  like — 
dear  me,  have  I  been  wearing  my  hat  all  the  time? 

Nancy :    Yes,  darling,  I  love  you  in  your  hat. 

(A  little  upset,  Broxopp  takes  it  off  and  throws 
it  on  the  floor.) 

Broxopp:  (Pained.)  Darling,  you  should  have  told 
me. 

Nancy:  I  love  you  so — just  as  you  are.  The  Great 
Broxopp.  Now  then,  begin  from  the  beginning. 

Broxopp:  (His  happiness  recovered.)  Well,  after 
breakfast — a  breakfast  so  enormous  that,  as  I  said  to 
you  at  the  time,  I  probably  shouldn't  require  any  dinner 
after  it 

Nancy:  (Hastily.)  Yes,  darling,  but  I  said  it  first, 
and  I  really  meant  it.  (Carelessly.)  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  somehow  I  feel  I  shan't  be  at  all  hungry  for 
dinner  today. 


2OO  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Looking  down  lovingly  at  her.)  Nancy, 
what  is  for  dinner  today  ? 

Nancy:  (As  though  dinner  were  a  small  matter  in 
that  house.)  Oh,  chops,  bread  and  cheese  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  (Eagerly.)  But  never  mind  dinner  now 
— go  on  telling  me. 

Broxopp:  Nancy,  look  at  me  and  tell  me  how  many 
chops  you  have  ordered  ? 

Nancy:  (Bravely.)  I  thought  perhaps  one  would 
be  enough  for  you,  dear,  as  you  weren't  very  hungry, 
and  not  being  hungry  myself 

Broxopp:  (Jumping  up  excitedly.)  I  thought  so! 
The  Great  Broxopp  to  dine  off  one  chop!  The  Great 
Broxopp's  wife  to  dine  off  no  chops !  (Hedeans  against 
the  wall  in  a  magnificent  manner  and  with  a  tremendous 
flourish  produces  a  five  pound  note.)  Woman,  buy  five 
hundred  chops!  (Producing  another  five  pound  note 
with  an  even  greater  air.)  Five  hundred  tons  of  fried 
potatoes!  (Flourishing  a  third  note.)  Five  million 
bottles  of  tomato  sauce !  (  Thumping  his  heart. )  That's 
the  sort  of  man  I  am. 

Nancy:  (Excitedly.)  Jim!  Have  you  earned  all 
this? 

Broxopp:  (Disparagingly.)  Tut!  That's  nothing 
to  what  is  coming. 

Nancy:  Fifteen  pounds !  (Suddenly  remembering.) 
Now  what  would  you  really  like  for  dinner? 

Broxopp:  (Going  over  to  her  and  taking  her  hands.) 
Nancy,  you  believed  in  me  all  the  time.  It  has  been 
weary  waiting  for  you,  but  now — (Answering  her 
question.)  I  think  I  should  like  a  kiss. 

Nancy:  (Kissing  him  and  staying  very  close.)  Of 
course  I  believed  in  you,  my  wonderful  man.  And  now 


The  Great  Broxopp  201 

they'll  all  believe  in  you.  (After  a  pause.)  Who  be- 
lieved the  fifteen  pounds?  Was  it  Mr.  Spenlow? 

Broxopp:  Spenlow?  Bah!  (He  strides  across  the 
room  and  tears  down  the  Spenlow  advertisements.) 
Spenlow  comes  down — like  his  suspenders.  Facilis 
descensus  Spenlovi.  (Dramatically.)  I  see  the  man 
Spenlow  begging  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  I  see 
his  wife's  stockings  falling  in  swathes  about  her  ankles. 
I  see 

Nancy:    Darling! 

Broxopp:  You're  quite  right,  dear.  I'm  being  vul- 
gar again.  And  worse  than  that — uncharitable.  When 
we  are  rich,  we  will  ask  the  Spenlows  to  stay  with  us. 
We  will  be  kind  to  them;  we  will  provide  them  with 
suspenders. 

Nancy:  (Bringing  him  back  to  the  point.)  Jim! 
(She  holds  up  the  money.)  You  haven't  told  me  yet. 

Broxopp:  (Carelessly.)  Oh,  that?  That  was  from 
Fordyce. 

Nancy:    The  Fordyce  cheap  Restaurants? 

Broxopp:  The  same.  I  had  an  inspiration  this 
morning.  I  forced  my  way  into  the  office  of  the  man 
Fordyce  and  I  took  him  on  one  side  and  whispered 
winged  words  into  his  ear.  I  said  (Dramatically.) 
"Fordyce  fills  you  for  fivepence."  It  will  be  all  over 
London  tomorrow.  "Fordyce  fills  you  for  five  pence." 
What  an  arresting  thought  to  a  hungry  man ! 

Nancy:    Shall  we  have  dinner  there  today,  dear  ? 

Broxopp:  Good  Heavens,  no!  It  is  sufficient  that  I 
drag  others  into  his  beastly  eating-house.  We  will  dine 
on  champagne,  regally. 

Nancy:  Darling,  I  know  you  are  an  artist  and 
musn't  be  thwarted  but — there's  the  rent — and — and 
other  days  coming — and 


2O2  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Dropping  into  his  chair  again.)  Nancy, 
come  and  sit  on  my  knee.  (With  suppressed  excite- 
ment.) Quick,  while  I'm  sitting  down.  I  shall  be 
wanting  to  walk  about  directly.  This  room  is  too  small 
for  me. 

(She  comes  to  him.) 

Nancy,  it  has  been  a  hard  struggle  for  you,  I'm 
afraid. 

Nancy:    I've  loved  it,  Jim. 

Broxopp:  Well,  that's  over  now.  Now  the  real  fun 
is  beginning.  (Triumphantly.)  Nancy,  I'm  on  my 
own  at  last.  Broxopp  is  on  his  own!  (He  puts  her 
down  impetuously  and  jumps  up.)  I  look  into  the  fu- 
ture and  what  do  I  see?  I  see  on  every  hoarding,  I 
see  on  the  side  of  every  omnibus,  I  see  dotted  among 
the  fields  along  the  great  railway  routes  these  magic 
words:  "BROXOPP'S  BEANS  FOR  BABIES." 

Nancy :    ( Carried  away. )    Darling ! 

Broxopp:  Yes!  I  have  begun.  And  now  the  world 
will  see  what  advertisement  can  do  in  the  haiids  of  an 
artist.  Broxopp's  Beans  for  Babies. 

Nancy:    But — (Timidly)  do  babies  like  beans? 

Broxopp:  (Confidently.)  They  will.  I  can  make 
them  like  anything.  I  can  make  them  cry  for  beans. 
They  will  lean  out  of  their  little  cradles  and  hold  out 
their  little  hands  and  say:  "Broxopp.  I  want  Broxopp. 
Give  me  my  beans." 

Nancy:  (Seeing  them.)  The  darlings.  (Business- 
like.) Now  tell  me  all  about  it. 

Broxopp:  (Really  meaning  to  this  time.)  It  began 
with — (Tenderly.)  Ah,  Nancy,  it  began  with  you.  I 
might  have  known  it  would.  I  owe  it,  like  everything 
else,  to  you. 


The  Great  Broxopp  203 

Nancy:    (Awed.)    To  me? 

Broxopp:    To  you.    It  was  the  nail-brush. 

Nancy :    The  nail-brush  ? 

Broxopp:  Yes,  you  told  me  the  other  day  to  buy  a 
nail-brush.  (Looking  at  his  fingers.)  You  were  quite 
right.  As  you  said,  a  gentleman  is  known  by  his  hands. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before.  Always  tell  me,  darling. 
Well,  I  went  into  a  chemist's.  Fordyce  had  given  me 
fifteen  guineas.  I  had  the  odd  shillings  in  my  pocket 
and  I  suddenly  remembered.  There  was  a  very  nice 
gentlemanly  young  fellow  behind  the  counter,  and  as 
sometimes  happens  on  these  occasions,  I  got  into  con- 
versation with  him. 

Nancy:    (Smiling  to  herself.)    Yes,  darling. 

Broxopp:  I  told  him  something  of  my  outlook  on 
life.  I  spoke  of  the  lack  of  imagination  which  is  the 
curse  of  this  country,  instancing  the  man  Spenlow  as 
an  example  of  the  type  with  whom  we  artists  had  to 
deal.  He  interrupted  me  to  say  that  he  had  found  it 
so,  too.  A  patent  food  which  he  had  composed  in  his 
leisure  moments — I  broke  in  hastily.  "Tell  me  of  your 
food,"  I  said.  "Perhaps,"  and  I  smote  my  breast,  "per- 
haps /  am  the  capitalist  for  whom  you  look." 

Nancy:    The  five  hundred  pounds ! 

Broxopp:  The  five  hundred  pounds.  The  nest  egg 
which  I  had  been  keeping  for  just  such  a  moment.  In 
a  flash  I  saw  that  the  moment  had  come. 

Nancy:  (A  little  frightened.)  Then  we  shall  never 
have  that  five  hundred  pounds  behind  us  again. 

Broxopp:  But  think  of  the  thousands  we  shall  have 
in  front  of  us !  Millions ! 

Nancy:    We  seemed  so  safe  with  that  in  the  bank. 


204  The  Great  Broxopp 

Your  little  inheritance.  No,  darling,  I'm  not  disagree- 
ing. I  know  you're  quite  right.  But  I'm  just  a  little 
frightened.  You  see,  I'm  not  so  brave  as  you. 

Broxopp:  But  you  will  be  brave  with  me?  You 
believe  in  me? 

Nancy:    Oh,  yes,  yes.     (Bravely.}    Go  on. 

Broxopp:  (Going  on.}  He  told  me  about  his  dis- 
covery. A  food  for  babies.  Thomson's  Food  for 
Babies,  he  called  it.  (Scornfully.}  No  wonder  no- 
body would  look  at  it.  "The  name  you  want  on  that 
food,"  I  said,  "is  Broxopp."  Who  is  Thomson  ?  Any- 
body. The  next  man  you  meet  may  be  Thomson.  But 
there  is  only  one  Broxopp — the  Great  Broxopp.  (  With 
an  inspired  air.}  Broxopp's  Beans  for  Babies. 

Nancy:  (Timidly.}  I  still  don't  quite  see  why 
beans. 

Broxopp:  Nor  did  he,  Nancy.  "Mr.  Thomson,"  I 
said,  "this  is  my  business.  You  go  about  inventing 
foods.  Do  I  interfere  with  you  ?  No.  I  don't  say  that 
we  must  have  this  that  and  the  other  in  it.  All  I  do  is 
to  put  it  on  the  market  and  advertise  it.  And  when 
I'm  doing  that,  don't  you  interfere  with  me.  Why 
beans  ?  you  say.  Exactly !  I  want  the  whole  of  Eng- 
land to  ask  that  question.  Beans  for  Babies — what  an 
absurd  idea!  Who  is  this  Broxopp?  Once  they  begin 
talking  like  that,  I've  got  them.  As  for  the  food- 
make  it  up  into  bean  shape  and  let  them  dissolve  it.  Or 
no.  Leave  it  as  it  is.  They'll  talk  about  it  more  that 
way.  Lucus  a  non  lucendo. 

Nancy:    What  does  that  mean? 

Broxopp:  (Off-handedly.}  It's  Latin,  dear,  for 
calling  a  thing  black  because  it's  white.  Thomson  un- 
derstood ;  he's  an  educated  man,  he's  not  like  Spenlovv. 


The  Great  Broxopp  205 

Nancy:  And  do  we  share  the  profits  with  Mr, 
Thomson  ? 

Broxopp:  He'll  have  to  take  some,  of  course,  be^ 
cause  it's  his  food.  I  shall  be  generous  to  him,  Nancy; 
don't  you  be  afraid  of  that. 

Nancy:  I  know  you  will,  darling;  that's  what  I'm 
afraid  of. 

Broxopp:  (Carelessly.}  We  shall  have  an  agree- 
ment drawn  up.  (On  fire  to  begin.)  It  will  be  hard 
work  for  the  first  year.  Every  penny  we  make  will 
have  to  be  used  again  to  advertise  it.  (Thumping  the 
table.)  But  I  can  do  it!  With  you  helping  me,  Nancy, 
I  can  do  it. 

Nancy:  (Adoringly.)  You  can  do  it,  my  man. 
And  oh !  how  proud  I  shall  be  of  helping  you. 

Broxopp:  (Dreaming.)  And  the  time  will  come 
when  the  world  will  be  full  of  Broxopp  Babies.  I 
look  into  the  future  and  I  see — millions  of  them. 

Nancy:  (Coming  very  close.)  Jim,  when  I  am  all 
alone,  then  sometimes  I  look  into  the  future,  too. 

Broxopp:  (Indulgently.)  And  what  do  you  see, 
Nancy  ? 

Nancy:  (Over-awed  by  what  she  sees.)  Some- 
times I  seem  to  see  one  little  Broxopp  baby. 

Broxopp:    (With  a  shout.)  Nancy !  You  mean 

Nancy:  (Softly.)  Would  you  like  to  have  a  little 
one  of  your  very  own,  Jim  ? 

Broxopp :    My  darling !    ( He  takes  her  in  his  arms. ) 

Nancy:    My  husband! 

Broxopp:  (Releasing  her.)  A  Broxopp — to  carry 
on  the  name.  A  little  Broxopp !  ( The  idea  suddenly 
comes  to  him.)  Nancy,  he  shall  be  the  first,  the 
pioneer  of  all  the  Broxopp  Babies.  (Carried  away.) 
I  see  him — everywhere — sitting  in  his  little  vest 


206  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:    (Seeing  him  too.)     His  little  vest! 

Broxopp:    Holding  out  his  little  pudgy  hand 

Nancy:    His  little  pudgy  hand! 

Broxopp:  And  saying  to  all  the  world — (He  hesi- 
tates, and  a  sudden  triumphant  inspiration  gives  him 
the  words. )  "I  am  a  Broxopp  Baby — are  you  ?" 

(They  gaze  into  the  future,  Broxopp  seeing  his 
million  babies,  Nancy  seeing  her  one.) 


ACT  II 

Scene:  A  sitting-room  in  the  Great  Broxopp' s  house 
in  Queen's  Gate.  Being  the  room  in  which  he 
is  generally  interviewed,  it  is  rather  heavily 
furnished,  as  befits  a  commercial  prince.  The 
desk  with  the  telephone  on  it,  the  bookcase,  the 
chairs  and  sofa,  the  mantelpiece  are  all  solid.  But 
what  really  attracts  your  eye  is  the  large  picture 
of  the  baby,  looking  at  you  over  the  end  of  his  cot, 
and  saying:  "I  am  a  Broxopp  baby — are  you?" 
At  least,  he  says  so  on  the  posters;  this  is  the 
original,  in  a  suitable  gold  frame,  for  which  Jack 
Broxopp  sat  twenty-three  years  ago. 

(Benham,  the  new  butler  (Jack's  idea)  is  discov- 
ered answering  the  telephone.) 

Benham:  (At  telephone.)  Hello  .  .  .  Mr.  Broxopp 

is  not  here  for  the  moment,  sir.    Can  I  take  a  message 

.  .  .  To  ring  Mr.  Morris  up  some  time  this  morning. 

Yes,  sir  ...  Thank  you,  sir.     (He  walks  'back  to  the 

door  and  meets  Alice  coming  in.) 

Alice:  Oh,  Mr.  Benham,  I  was  looking  for  you. 
There's  -a  young  woman,  name  of  Johns,  just  come  to 
see  the  master.  Would  you  wish  to  show  her  up  your- 
self, Mr.  Benham?  You  see  we're  not  used  to  a  gen- 
tleman with  us  downstairs.  It's  all  so  new  to  us.  When 
you  were  with  His  Grace 

Benham:    Who  is  this  young  woman? 
Alice:    {Giving  card.)     She  comes  from  one  of  the 
newspapers. 


2o8  The  Great  Broxopp 

Benhant:  (Reading.)  "Miss  Honoria  Johns, 
Special  Correspondent  to  the  Daily  Gossip.  Contribu- 
tor to  the  Queen  and  other  leading  journals."  (Con- 
temptuously.) What  does  she  want ?  An  interview? 

Alice:  She  didn't  say,  Mr.  Benham,  but  I  expect 
that's  what  she  wants. 

Benham:  I'll  send  her  away.  Bless  you,  I  had  to 
send  hundreds  of  them  away  when  I  was  with  His 
Grace. 

Alice:  (Alarmed.)  Oh,  but  I  don't  think  Mr. 
Broxopp  would  like  that. 

Benham:  (Staggered.)  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
he  wants  to  be  interviewed  ? 

Alice:  Oh,  I'm  sure  he  does.  But  I  suppose  he's 
gone  to  his  office.  Oh,  no,  he  hasn't,  because  there's 
his  hat. 

Benham:  (Scandalised.)  His  hat?  Has  he  only 
got  one  hat? 

Alice:  Only  one  that  he  wears.  What  the  papers 
call  the  "Broxopp  hat." 

Benham:  (To  Heaven.)  If  anybody  had  told  me 
a  year  ago  that  I  should  take  service  in  a  house  where 
we  only  wore  one  hat — but  there!  "God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way,  His  wonders  to  perform." 

Alice:  Oh,  but  it  isn't  as  if  Mr.  Broxopp  was  just 
an  ordinary  gentleman.  You  mustn't  think  that,  Mr. 
Benham. 

Benham:  You  all  make  too  much  of  your  Mr. 
Broxopp,  my  girl.  After  all,  who  is  he? 

Alice:    (Shocked.)     Oh,  Mr.  Benham! 

Benham:  (Relenting.)  Good  in  his  own  line,  I  ad- 
mit. Personality,  push,  jer  ner  sais  kwar,  as  the  French 
put  it — possibly.  But  who  is  he  ?  What's  his  family  ? 


The  Great  Broxopp  209 

Alice:    Well,  there's  only  Mr.  Jack,  of  course. 

Benham:  (Contemptuously.)  Mr.  Jack  isn't 
"family,"  my  girl.  Mr.  Jack  is  "hissue."  Not  but 
what  Mr.  Jack  is  very  well  in  his  way.  Eton  and  Ox- 
ford— I've  nothing  to  say  against  that,  though  I  pre- 
fer Cambridge  myself.  But  who's  the  family? 
Broxopp!  There  isn't  such  a  family. 

Alice:  Well,  but  I'm  sure  he's  very  rich.  Mr.  Ben- 
ham. 

Benham:  Rich,  yes,  but  what  does  he  do  with  his 
money?  Does  he  hunt  or  shoot?  Does  he  entertain? 
Has  he  got  a  country-house? 

Alice:  (Sticking  to  it.)  I'm  sure  you  couldn't  find 
a  nicer  gentleman  than  Sir  Roger  Tenterden  who  lives 
next  door,  and  came  to  dinner  here  only  last  Tuesday 
with  his  daughter.  And  as  to  a  country-house,  well, 
some  likes  London,  and  some  likes  the  country,  and  it's 
just  according. 

Benham :  Tenterden  ?  Ah,  now  that  is  family,  my 
girl.  That's  the  best  I've  heard  of  your  Mr.  Broxopp 
as  yet.  But  you  mustn't  stand  talking  here  all  the 
morning.  Just  go  down  and  tell  that  young  woman  to 
wait  until  I  send  for  her.  They're  used  to  waiting. 

Alice:    Yes,  Mr.  Benham. 

Benham:  Say  that,  if  the  opportunity  occurs,  I  will 
do  my  best  to  persuade  Mr.  Broxopp  to  give  her  a  few 
minutes  of  his  time. 

Alice:    Yes,  Mr.  Benham. 

Benham:  But  that  it  will  be  useless  for  her  to  ex- 
pect me  to  divulge  any  of  the  secrets  of  His  Grace's 
household,  such  as  are  naturally  known  to  me.  Tell 
her  that  my  lips  are  sealed. 

Alice:     (Awed.)     Yes,  Mr.  Benham. 
(Alice  goes  out.) 


210  The  Great  Broxopp 

Benham:  (Picking  up  hat  delicately  and  putting  it 
down  again. )  One  hat — and  what  a  hat ! 

(Broxopp  comes  in.  Very  much  the  Broxopp 
that  we  know,  though  his  hair,  moustache  and 
beard  are  greying  slightly,  and  his  face  is 
more  lined.  He  still  wears  a  broad-tailed 
coat  and  a  spreading  blue  tie,  though  he  prob- 
ably pays  more  for  them  nowadays. ) 

Broxopp:    Well,  Benham,  what  is  it? 

Benham:  A  gentleman  rang  up,  your  Grace — I  beg 
your  pardon — "Sir,"  I  should  have  said. 

Broxopp:  Call  me  your  Grace  if  it's  any  comfort 
to  you,  Benham. 

Benham:    Thank  you,  sir. 

Broxopp:    Settling  down  all  right? 

Benham:    I  am  quite  comfortable,  sir,  thank  you. 

Broxopp:  I'm  afraid  you  feel  that  you  have  come 
down  in  the  world? 

Benham:    In  a  sense,  yes,  sir. 

Broxopp:  Well,  you'll  have  to  climb  up  again,  Ben- 
ham,  that's  all.  Did  you  ever  read  a  little  book — you 
can  get  it  at  all  bookstalls — called  "Broxoppiana  ?" 

Benham:  In  a  general  way,  sir,  I  read  nothing  later 
than  Lord  Lytton. 

Broxopp:  (Genially.)  Well,  this  is  by  Lord 
Broxopp — a  few  suggestive  thoughts  that  have  oc- 
curred to  me  from  time  to  time — with  photography. 
On  page  7,  I  say  this:  "Going  there  is  better  fun  than 
getting  there."  I've  got  there,  Benham.  You're  just 
going  there  again.  I  envy  you. 

Benham:  Thank  you,  sir  ...  I  wonder  if  I  might 
take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  advice,  sir,  in  a  matter 
of  some  importance  to  myself. 


The  Great  Broxopp  211 

Broxopp:    Why  not? 

Bcnham:     Thank  you,  sir. 

Broxopp:    What  is  it?    You  want  to  get  married? 

Bcnham:     (Shocked.}     Heaven  forbid,  sir. 

Broxopp:  Well,  Benham,  I've  been  married  twenty- 
five  years,  and  I've  never  regretted  it. 

Benham:  I  suppose  one  sogn  gets  used  to  it,  sir. 
What  I  wanted  to  take  your  advice  about,  sir,  was  a 
little  financial  matter  in  which  I  am  interested. 

Broxopp:  Oh!  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure  that  you're  wise, 
Benham. 

Bcnham:    Wise,  sir? 

Broxopp:  In  asking  my  advice  about  little  financial 
matters.  I  lost  five  thousand  myself  last  month. 

Benham:  (Alarmed.)  Not  in  West  Africans,  I 
trust,  sir? 

Broxopp:  God  knows  what  it  was  in.  Jack  said 
they  were  going  up. 

Benham:    I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,  sir. 

Broxopp:  You  needn't  be.  That  sort  of  thing 
doesn't  worry  me,  (With  a  snap  of  the  fingers.)  that 
much.  I'd  sooner  lose  five  thousand  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change than  lose  one  customer  who  might  have  bought 
a  five  shilling  bottle  of  Broxopp's  Beans  and  didn't. 
I'm  not  a  financier,  Benham.  I  take  no  interest  in 
money  for  its  own  sake.  It's  no  good  consulting  me 
about  your  investments ;  I  can  only  give  you  two  pieces 
of  advice.  One — get  married.  Two — if  you  have  any 
children,  bring  them  up  on  Broxopp's  Beans. 

Benham.:  Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be 
unable  to  follow  your  advice,  sir;  particularly  in  the 
matter  of  the  children.  Children,  I  have  noticed,  are 
invariably  disappointing  when  they  grow  up. 


212  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Thoughtfully.}  I  suppose  they  are, 
Benham  ...  I  suppose  they  are.  (Putting  his 
thought  away  suddenly.)  Well,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  help 
you.  You  should  speak  to  Sir  Roger  the  next  time  he 
comes  to  dinner.  He's  gone  into  the  City  lately,  and  I 
dare  say  he  can  put  you  on  to  a  good  thing. 

Benham:  Thank  you,  sir.  It  would  be  very  con- 
descending of  him.  Would  you  like  me  to  brush  your 
hat,  sir? 

Broxopp:  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  who  this  gen- 
tleman was  who  rang  up. 

Benham:  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  A  Mr.  Mor- 
ris. He  wishes  you  to  communicate  with  him  this 
morning,  sir,  if  convenient. 

Broxopp:  Morris?  Ridiculous  fellow.  All  right, 
Benham. 

Benham:    Thank  you,  sir. 

(He  picks  up  the  hat  and  goes  out  as  Broxopp 

goes  to  the  telephone.} 

Broxopp:  (At  telephone.}  Central  99199  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .Is  Mr.  Morris  in?  Broxopp  speaking  .  .  . 
Yes  .  .  .  Hullo,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Morris?  Broxopp 
speaking  .  .  .  Yes,  I've  got  your  letter  .  .  .  Oh,  no, 
no,  no,  I  don't  care  how  good  the  offer  is.  I  don't 
want  to  sell  .  .  .  Well,  you  see,  I  happen  to  be  inter- 
ested in  Broxopp's  Beans  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  but 
I  mean  artistically  interested.  It's  my  work,  Morris; 
it's  what  I  live  for.  I  am  much  too  fond  of  it  to  want 
to  share  it  with  anybody  .  .  .  Well,  my  son  will  join 
me  some  day,  I  hope,  but  no  companies  for  me  .  .  . 
That's  final,  Morris  .  .  .  Well,  look  here,  if  your  man 
is  as  keen  as  all  that  to  buy  Broxopp's  Beans  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do. 

(He  looks  up  at  Mrs.  Broxopp  as  she  comes  in, 


The  Great  Broxopp  213 

and  nods  affectionately  to  her,  and  then  goes 
on  speaking  down  the  telephone.} 
I'll  let  him  have  one  of  the  large  bottles  for  two  and 
ninepence.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  (Greatly  pleased  with  him- 
self.) Good-bye,  Mr.  Morris.  (He  puts  back  the  re- 
ceiver, and  says  to  Mrs.  Broxopp. )  Morris  has  a  man 
who  wants  to  buy  Broxopp's  Beans.  I  said  I'd  let  him 
have  one  of  the  large  bottles  for  two  and  ninepence. 
Rather  good,  Nancy,  wasn't  it  ?  We  must  put  it  in  the 
next  edition  of  Broxoppiana.  (Thoughtfully.)  I'm 
not  often  funny.  (He  kisses  her  hand  and  leads  her  to 
the  sofa.) 

Nancy:  Dear  one  .  .  .  Aren't  you  going  to  the  City 
this  morning? 

Broxopp:  (On  the  sofa  with  her.)  I  don't  know. 
There's  not  much  to  do  just  now.  Besides  (Tapping 
his  buttonhole.)  how  could  I  go? 

Nancy:  (Getting  up.)  Oh,  you  baby.  Have  you 
been  waiting  for  me  to  put  that  in?  (She  goes  to  the 
bowl  of  carnations  and  takes  one  out.) 

Broxopp:  Well,  I  couldn't  go  without  it,  could  I? 
Broxopp  without  his  pink  carnation — what  would  they 
say  in  the  City  ?  And  after  you'd  put  it  in  for  me  for 
twenty  years,  how  could  I  put  it  in  for  myself? 

Nancy:     (Giving  it  the  final  touch.)     There! 

Broxopp:  (Looking  from  it  to  her  with  a  satisfied 
smile.)  Now  then,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  perhaps  I'll  go. 

Nancy:  You're  only  a  boy  still,  Jim;  much  younger 
than  Jack. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  Jack's  just  at  the  age  when  they're 
oldest.  He'll  grow  out  of  it.  Now  then,  what  about 
that  kiss? 

Nancy:  Keep  young,  Jim.  (She  kisses  hint  and  he 
takes  her  in  his  arms.) 


214  The  Great  Broxopp 

(Enter  Bcnham  noiselessly:') 

Benhum:  (Addressing  the  ceiling.}  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir. 

(They  disengage  hastily.} 

But  there's  a  young  woman  called  from  one  of  the 
newspapers.  I  think  she  desires  an  interview  for  the 
journal  with  which  she  is  connected.  Or  something  of 
that  nature,  sir.  (He  hands  Broxopp  her  card.) 

Broxopp:    Ah,  yes.     Well,  show  her  up  then. 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Broxopp:  (Indignantly.)  What  I  say  is  this, 
Nancy.  If  a  man  can't  kiss  his  own  wife,  on  his  own 
sofa,  without  being  interrupted,  he  isn't  living  in  a 
home  at  all.  He's  living  in  an  hotel.  Now,  I  suppose 
that  the  dignified  gentleman  who  has  just  left  us 
despises  us  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  His  Grace 
would  never  have  been  so  vulgar  as  to  kiss  his  oivn  wife 
on  the  sofa. 

Nancy:  It  doesn't  matter  very  much,  Jim,  does  it? 
And  I  expect  we  shall  get  used  to  him. 

Broxopp:  I  don't  know  why  we  ever  had  the  fel- 
low— except  that  Master  Jack  thought  it  went  better 
with  Eton  and  Oxford.  Eton  and  Oxford — was  that 
your  idea  or  mine  ? 

Nancy:    Yours,  dear. 

Broxopp:  Oh!  Well,  the  only  thing  they  taught 
him  there  was  that  his  father's  tie  was  the  wrong  shape. 

Nancy:  (Carried  back  as  she  looks  up  at  the  pic- 
ture.) There  never  was  a  better  baby  than  Jack. 

Broxopp:  (Looking  at  the  picture  too.)  Yes,  he 
used  to  like  my  tie  in  those  days.  He  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  he  was  playing  with  it.  Funny  ho\v 


The  Great  Broxopp  215 

they  change  when  they  grow  up.  (Looking  at  his 
watch.}  What  are  you  doing  this  morning? 

Nancy:  (Getting  up.)  All  right,  darling.  I'm  go- 
ing. I  know  you  like  being  alone  for  interviews. 

Broxopp:  (Going  to  the  door  with  her.)  But  you 
must  come  in,  Nancy,  at  the  end.  That  went  well  last 
time.  (Quoting.)  "Ah,"  said  Mr.  Broxopp,  as  a  mid- 
dle-aged but  still  beautiful  woman  glided  into  the 
room,  "here  is  my  wife.  My  wife,"  he  went  on,  with  a 
tender  glance  at  the  still  beautiful  woman,  "to  whom  I 
owe  all  my  success."  As  he  said  these  words 

Nancy:  Oh,  I  expect  this  one  won't  write  that  sort 
of  rubbish. 

Broxopp:    Rubbish?    I  don't  call  that  rubbish. 
Nancy:     Well,   then,  nonsense,   darling.     Only — I 
rather  like  nonsense. 

(Nancy  goes-  out.  Left  alone,  the  Great  Broxopp 
gets  ready.  He  spreads  out  his  tic,  fingers 
his  buttonhole  and  sees  that  a  volume  of 
Shakespeare  is  well  displayed  on.  the  fable. 
Then  he  sits  down  at  his  desk  and  is  discov- 
ered by  Miss  Johns  hard  at  it.) 
Benham:  (Announcing.)  Miss  Johns* 

(Benham  goes  out,  leaving  Miss  Johns  behind; 
a  nervous  young  woman  of  about  tliirty,  -with 
pince  ncs.  But  Broxopp  is  being  too  quick  for 
her.    He  has  whisked  the  receiver  off,  and  is 
busy  saying  "Quite  so,"  and  "Certainly"  to 
the  confusion  of  the  girl  at  the  Exchange.) 
Broxopp:     Sit  down,  Miss  Johns,  won't  you?     If 
you'll   excuse   me   just  a  moment — (Down  the  tele- 
phone.)   Yes  .  .  .  yes,  certainly  .  .  .  Good-bye.    (He 
replaces  the  receiver  and  turns  to  her.)     Well,  Miss 
Johns,  and  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? 


216  The  Great  Broxopp 

Miss  Johns:  (Nervously.)  You  saw  my  card,  Mr. 
Broxopp  ? 

Broxopp:  Did  I?  Then  where  did  I  put  it? 
You're  from ? 

Miss  Johns:     The  Daily  Gossip. 

Broxopp:     Yes,  yes,  of  course.     (Encouragingly.) 

And  you — er 

(He  stands  up,  so  that  she  can  see  him  better, 
and  leans  against  the  mantelpiece.  A  little 
dazzled,  she  turns  away,  looks  round  the  room 
for  inspiration  and  catches  sight  of  the  pic- 
ture. ) 

Miss  Johns:  (Impulsively.)  Oh,  Mr.  Broxopp,  is 
that  IT? 

Broxopp:  (Trying  not  to  be  proud.)  My  boy  Jack 
— Eton  and  Oxford — when  he  was  a  baby.  You've 
seen  the  posters,  of  course. 

Miss  Johns:    Who  hasn't,  Mr.  Broxopp? 

Broxopp:  I  always  say  I  owe  half  my  success  to 
Jack.  He  was  the  first  Broxopp  baby — and  now  there 
are  a  million  of  them.  I-  don't  know  whether — er — 
you ? 

Miss  Johns:  (Coyly.)  Oh,  you  flatter  me,  Mr. 
Broxopp.  I'm'  afraid  I  was  born  a  little  top  soon. 

Broxopp:  A  pity,  a  pity.  But  no  doubt  your  re- 
lations  

Miss  Johns:  Oh,  yes,  my  nephews  and  nieces — they 
are  all  Broxopp  babies.  And  then  I  have  always  felt 
specially  interested  in  Broxopp's  Beans,  Mr.  Broxopp, 
because  I  live  in  (archly)  in  Bloomsbury,  Mr.  Broxopp. 

Broxopp:  Really?  When  my  wife  (He  looks  to- 
wards the  door  in  case  she  should  be  choosing  that  very 
opportune  moment  to  come  in.)  to  whom  I  owe  all  my 
success — when  my  wife  and  I  were  first  married 


The  Great  Broxopp  217 

Miss  Johns:  (Eagerly.)  I  know,  Mr.  Broxopp. 
You  sec,  that's  what  makes  me  so  interested.  I  live 
at  Number  26,  too,  in  the  floor  below. 

Broxopp:  Now,  now,  do  you  really?  Well,  I  de- 
clare. That's  very  curious. 

Miss  Johns:  I've  only  been  there  the  last  few 
months.  But  the  very  first  thing  they  told  me  when 
I  took  the  room  was  that  the  Mr.  Broxopp  had  begun 
his  career  in  that  house. 

Broxopp:  (Pleased.}  Ah,  they  remember!  .  .  . 
Yes,  that  was  where  I  began.  There  was  a  man  called 
Thomson  .  .  .  but  you  wouldn't  be  interested  in  him. 
He  dropped  out  very  soon.  He  had  no  faith.  I  paid 
him  well — I  was  too  generous,  my  wife  said.  But  it 
was  worth  it  to  be  alone.  Ah,  Miss  Johns,  you  see  me 
now  in  my  beautiful  home,  surrounded  by  pictures, 
books — (He  picks  up  the  Shakespeare  and  reads  the 
title.)  "The  Works  of  Shakespeare"  (And  puts  it  down 
again.) — costly  furniture — all  that  money  can  buy.  And 
perhaps  you  envy  me.  Yet  I  think  I  was  happier  in 
those  old  days  at  Bloomsbury  when  I  was  fighting  for 
my  life  ...  Did  you  ever  read  a  little  book  called 
"Broxoppiana"  ? 

Miss  Johns:  Now,  isn't  that  funny,  Mr.  Broxopp? 
I  bought  it  only  last  Saturday  when  I  was  going  down 
to  my  brother's  in  the  country. 

Broxopp:  Well,  you  may  remember  how  I  say,  "Go- 
ing there  is  better  fun  than  getting  there."  It's  true, 
Miss  Johns. 

Miss  Johns:  (Proud  of  knowing  it.)  Didn't  Stev- 
enson say  something  like  that  ? 

Broxopp:    (Firmly.)    Not  in  my  hearing. 

Miss  Johns:  I  mean  the  Stevenson.  I  think  he  said, 
"To  travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing-  than  to  arrive." 


218  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  Yes — well,  that's  another  way  of  putting 
it.  To  travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive. 
So  Stevenson  found  it  out,  too,  did  he  ?  Well,  he  was 
right  .  .  .  All  those  years  when  I  was  building  up 
BROXOPP'S  Beans  I  was  happy,  really  happy.  I'm  a 
fighter.  I  like  taking  the  Public  by  the  throat  and  mak- 
ing them  look  at  me.  That's  over  now.  I've  got  'em 
almost  too  tame.  They  come  and  eat  the  Beans  out  of 
my  hand.  And  though  my  success  has  given  me  some- 
thing— a  comfortable  home — servants  to  wait  upon  me 
• — butlers  and  what  not — the  best  authors  to  read — (He 
picks  up  the  Shakespeare  and  puts  it  down  again.)— 
even  a  son  from  Eton  and  Oxford  to  gladden  my  old 
heart — yet  I  miss  something.  I  miss  the  struggle  of 
those  early  days  when  my  dear  wife  and  I  (He  has  an- 
other look  at  the  door  just  in  case.)  set  out  together 
hand  in  hand  to  beat  the  world.  (Sighing. )  Ah,  well ! 
(In  a  business-like  voice.)  Now  what  can  I  tell  you 
about  myself,  Miss  Johns?  Pray,  don't  be  afraid  of 
making  any  notes  that  you  like. 

Miss  Johns:  I  shall  remember  what  you  said,  Mr. 
Broxopp,  without  taking  any  notes. 

Broxopp:  Ah,  well,  you  must  please  yourself  about 
that.  (Looking  at  his  watch.)  Now  then,  I'm  waiting 
for  you. 

Miss  Johns:    I (She  hesitates.) 

Broxopp:  (Kindly.)  Perhaps  you're  not  used  to 
interviewing?  This  is  the  first  time  you've  done  it,  eh? 

Miss  Johns:  Well,  I  don't  do  it,  as  a  rule.  And 
I'm  afraid 

Broxopp:  Well,  perhaps  I  can  help  you  with  it. 
You  must  send  me  your  manuscript.  My  wife  (He 
looks  at  the  door  hopefully.)  to  whom  I  owe  so  much, 
was  my  first  interviewer — ah,  that  was  many  years 
ago.  She  picked  up  a  guinea  for  it,  but  that  wasn't 


The  Great  Broxopp  219 

the  important  thing.  It  was  the  publicity.  "A  Talk 
with  one  of  our  Commercial  Princes" — and  we  were 
still  in  those  three  little  rooms  in  Bloomsbury,  and 
every  penny  we  made  went  back  into  the  business.  One 
of  our  Commercial  Princes — I  don't  suppose  the  Editor 
had  ever  even  heard  of  me.  (Chuckling.)  Ah,  but 
we  bluffed  him.  Lord,  how  we  piled  it  on.  "  'Tell  me, 
.Mr.  Broxopp,'  I  said —  '  that  was  my  wife.  "Mr. 
Broxopp  leant  against  his  marble  mantelpiece — "  that 
was  me — "and  fingered  the  well-known  Broxopp  tie — ' 
(Indicating  it)  same  one  as  this.  "Ah,  my  dear  boy, 
he  said — "  The  dear  boy  was  my  wife  of  course — 
she  signed  herself  N.  R.  Chillingham,  her  maiden 
name;  you  women  weren't  so  popular  on  the  Press  in 
those  days — we  pretended  she  was  a  man.  "Ah,  my 
dear  boy,  he  said,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  look 
which  came  over  his  rugged  face — "  my  wife  didn't 
like  rugged  but  I  insisted;  sounded  more  like  a  com- 
mercial prince — "  'there  is  only  one  secret  of  success 
and  that  is  hard  work.' '  Mind  you,  I  don't  believe  it 
— imagination  is  much  more  important.  But  they  liked 
it  in  those  days.  Hard  work.  It  sounded  well,  and 
woke  up  all  the  office  boys;  made  'em  work  like  the 
devil.  No  good  telling  an  office  boy  that  imagination 
is  the  thing — not  while  he's  working  for  you.  (With 
a  sigh. )  Ah,  well,  those  days  are  over.  Happy  days ! 
The  world  seems  to  have  grown  up  since  then.  (Look- 
ing at  his  watch.)  Well,  Miss  Johns? 

Miss  Johns:  (Very  nervous.}  Mr.  Broxopp,  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you.  I  didn't  really  come  to  inter- 
view at  all  to-day,  I 

Broxopp:     (Staggered.}     But  your  card 

Miss  Johns:  Oh,  I  am  on  the  press,  and  please,  Mr. 
Broxopp,  I  shall  certainly  write  an  article — perhaps 
two  articles — about  what  you've  told  me,  and  I  do 


22O  The  Great  Broxopp 

live  in  the  house  where  you  used  to  live,  and  I  was  so 
interested  in  you,  but (She  hesitates.) 

Broxopp:    (Mollified  by  the  two  articles.)    Well? 

Miss  Johns:  (Making  another  effort.)  You  see,  I 
used  to  live  with  my  brother  in  the  country.  And  he 
has  a  small  farm.  And  then  I  came  to  London.  And 
he  has  invented  a  chicken  food  and  it's  so  good,  and  I 

told  him  I'd  ask  you  if You  see,  I  felt  that  I 

knew  you  because  of  where  I  lived — I  wondered — 
(Taking  the  plunge.)  Mr.  Broxopp,  did  you  ever 
think  of  doing  anything  besides  Broxopp's  Beans? 

Broxopp:  (Nodding  to  himself.)  You  wondered 
if  I'd  take  up  this  food?  Put  it  on  the  market?  Boom 
it? 

Miss  Johns:    Oh,  yes! 

(He  thinks  it  over  and  then  shakes  his  head 
slowly.) 

Broxopp:    You're  too  late,  Miss  Johns. 

Miss  Johns:    Oh,  has  somebody  else 

Broxopp:  Twenty-four  years  too  late.  Now,  if 
you'd  come  to  me  twenty- four  years  ago 

Miss  Johns:  But  I  was  only  six  then.  (Hastily.) 
I  mean,  about  six. 

Broxopp:     Yes,    if   you'd   come   to   me   then 

(Thought f idly.)  Broxopp's  Beans  for  Brahmas — Yes, 
I  would  have  made  that  go.  But  not  now.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  the  babies.  I  couldn't  do  'em  both  justice. 
No,  Miss  Johns,  I'm  not  a  financier.  I'm  not  a  com- 
pany promoter.  I  want  to  put  all  of  myself  into  any- 
thing I  take  up,  and  I  couldn't  do  that  now.  (Regret- 
ftdly.)  Perhaps  if  you — (Firmly.)  No,  Miss  Johns. 
(More  to  himself  than  to  her.)  You  see,  Broxopp's 
Beans  for  Babies — it  isn't  just  my  living,  it's  my  whole 
life. 


The  Great  Broxopp  221 

Miss  Johns:  (Getting  up.)  I'm  afraid  I  oughtn't 
to  have  mentioned  it. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  that's  all  right.  You'll  never  get  on 
if  you  don't  mention  things.  (Shaking  hands.)  Well, 
good-bye.  Mind,  I  shall  expect  to  see  that  article — 
Two,  didn't  you  say?  And  if  there's  anything  else  you 
want  to  know — (He  stops  'beneath  the  picture  on  his 
way  with  her  to  the  door.)  A  pretty  baby,  wasn't  he? 

Miss  Johns:    Lovely! 

Broxopp:  Yes,  my  wife  and  I — (The  door  begins 
to  open.)  Ah,  here  she  is.  (He  keeps  his  attention  on 

the  picture.)     Nancy,  we  were  just  looking Hullo, 

Jack! 

Jack:  (Coming  in.)  Sorry.  Are  you  engaged? 
(He  sees  them  beneath  that  beastly  picture,  and  a  look 
of  resigned  despair  comes  into  his  face — he  shrugs  his 
shoulders.) 

Broxopp:  (To  Miss  Johns.)  My  boy  Jack.  Eton 
and  Oxford. 

(And  he  looks  it,  too — except  perhaps  for  his 
hair,  which-  is  just  a  little  more  in  keeping 
with  his  artistic  future  than  his  educational 
past.) 

Miss  Johns:  (Now  completely  upset.)  How  do  you 
do?  It's  so  nice  to  see  the — I  mean,  we  were  just 
looking — but  I  mustn't  keep  you,  Mr.  Broxopp — and 
thank  you  so  much,  and  I'm  so  sorry  that  you — but  of 
course  I  quite  understand.  Good-bye !  Good-bye ! 

(Miss  Johns  hurries  out.) 

Jack:  (Strolling  towards  the  sofa.)  Bit  nervous, 
isn't  she  ? 

Broxopp:    You  frightened  her. 

Jack:    (Sitting  down.)     Fleet  Street — and  all  that? 


222  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  Yes.  (Looking  round  the  room.) 
Where's  my  hat? 

Jack:    I  say,  you're  not  going? 

Broxopp:  Must.  Got  to  work,  Jack.  (Looking  at 
him  mischievously. )  When  are  you  going  to  begin  ? 

Jack:  (Airily.}  Oh,  as  soon  as  I've  got  the  studio 
fixed  up. 

Broxopp:    You  still  want  to  be  an  artist? 

Jack:  Well,  dash  it,  I've  only  just  begun  wanting. 
You've  had  twenty-five  years  of  Broxopp's  Beans — 
and — and  I  suppose  you  still  want  to  go  on,  don't  you  ? 

Broxopp:  (Smiling.)  Well,  that's  true.  Where's 
my  hat  ? 

Jack:    No,  look  here,  don't  go  yet. 

Broxopp:    Must,  my  boy. 

Jack:  Now,  what  on  earth  do  you  suppose  is  going 
to  happen  if  you  leave  the  Beans  alone  for  one  morn- 
ing ?  Are  all  the  babies  going  to  die  ? 

Broxopp:  What  would  happen  if  you  were  in  the 
middle  of  a  picture  and  left  it  alone  for  a  morning? 
Nothing.  But  you  might  be  keen  enough  to  want  to  go 
on  with  it. 

Jack:  Well,  I  might  be  afraid  of  losing  the  in- 
spiration, I  suppose. 

Broxopp:  Exactly.  So  might  I.  What's  that  con- 
founded fellow  done  with  my  hat  ? 

Jack:  (Seriously  alarmed.)  I  say — have  you  really 
got  a  new  inspiration  ?  I — I  suppose  /  don't  come  into 
it?  (He  jerks  his  thumb  towards  the  picture.) 

Broxopp:    Not  this  time. 

Jack:  (Fervently.)  Thank  the  Lord  ...  I  say, 
never  mind  about  that  beastly  hat.  You've  got  to  stay 
at  home  this  morning.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 


The  Great  Broxopp  223 

Broxopp:  (Looking  up  from  his  search.)  Hullo, 
Boy,  what's  the  matter? 

Jack:  I  say,  do  sit  down — I  keep  losing  sight  of 
you. 

(Broxopp  sits  down  obediently.) 

That's  better. 

Broxopp:    Well? 

Jack:     (Defensively.)    Well? 

Broxopp:    What's  happened? 

Jack:    What  do  you  mean — happened? 

Broxopp:    Well,  what  is  it  you  want  to  tell  me? 

Jack:  I  didn't  say  I  wanted  to  tell  you  anything.  I 
just  said,  "Let's  have  a  talk."  I  don't  see  why  a 
father  and  a  son  shouldn't  have  a  little  talk  together 
sometimes. 

Broxopp:  (Gladly.)  Neither  do  I,  Jack.  Only  I 
thought  perhaps  it  wasn't  done.  Bad  form  and  all 
that. 

Jack:    Oh,  rot! 

Broxopp:  You  see,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  ashamed 
of  me. 

Jack:  (Uneasily.)  I  say,  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
talk  like  that. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  but  I  mean  it.  You  see,  I'm  very 
proud  of  you,  Jack. 

Jack:  I'm  blessed  if  I  know  why  you  should  be.  I 
haven't  done  anything  yet. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  You've  called  me 
"Father"  sometimes  when  other  people  have  been  there. 
That  doesn't  sound  much,  perhaps,  but  it  makes  me 
proud. 

Jack:  (With  a  smile.)  You're  much  pronder  of 
your  blessed  beans,  aren't  you?  Own  up. 


224  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  Well,  you  were  born  about  the  same  time, 
but  I've  always  had  more  control  over  the  beans. 

Jack:  I  say,  you  aren't  still  sick  because  I  don't 
want  to  come  into  the  business? 

Broxopp:  I  was  only  saying  a  few  minutes  ago  that 
children  are  invariably  disappointing  when  they  grow 
up.  It  isn't  their  fault.  I  dare  say  that  we  are  just 
as  disappointing  to  our  children.  When  they  are  young 
they  think  we  are  wonderful;  so  wise,  so  strong,  so 
good.  And  then  they  grow  up  and — find  us  out.  So  if 
you  don't  want  to  come  into  the  business,  and  do  want 
to  be  an  artist,  I'm  not  "sick,"  even  if  I  am  disap- 
pointed. But  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  over  it. 

Jack:  (Nervously.)  You  know,  I  rather  wonder 
sometimes,  now  that  we've  decided  that  I'm  not  going 
into  it,  that  you  don't  chuck  it  yourself,  and  retire  into 
the  country.  It's  worth  a  good  bit  I  should  think,  if 
you  did  want  to  sell  it. 

Broxopp:  (Jokingly.)  Would  you  invest  the 
money  for  me? 

Jack:  (With  a  smile.)  Well,  I  own  I  had  a  bit  of 
rotten  luck  last  time,  but  I  dare  say  I'd  do  it  as  well 
as  you  would. 

Broxopp:  That's  not  saying  much.  I  don't  pro- 
fess to  watch  the  markets. 

Jack:  Neither  do  I,  only  young  Archie  happened  to 
say  that  he'd  heard  from  a  man  whose  uncle  knew  a 
fellow  who —  Well,  it  just  didn't  come  off,  that's 
all.  But  Sir  Roger  knows  all  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
He'd  do  it  for  you. 

Broxopp:  Well,  if  I  ever  do  want  to  sell  it,  I  dare 
say  I'll  consult  Sir  Roger,  but  that  won't  be  for  a  long 
time  yet.  (He  gets  up.)  Well 


The  Great  Broxopp  225 

Jack:  (Jumping  up  hastily.}  No,  look  here,  you 
mustn't  go  yet.  We've  only  just  begun  to  talk.  (Push- 
ing him  back  into  his  chair.)  That's  right. 

Broxopp:  (Good-humouredly.)  Is  this  a  con- 
spiracy to  keep  me  away  from  the  office,  or  what  ? 

Jack:  (Plunging  at  it.)  Dad,  you  see  before  you 
the  happiest  man  in  the  world 

Broxopp:    (Surprised.)    Oh! 

Jack:  Only,  it's  dashed  difficult.  (Having  another 
shot.)  What  do  you  think  Mother's  doing  at  this  mo- 
ment? 

Broxopp:  Just  what  I've  been  wondering.  I 
wanted  her  in  here. 

Jack:  Yes,  well,  she's  upstairs,  introducing  herself 
to  her  future  daughter-in-law. 

Broxopp:    Jack!    Who? 

Jack:  Iris  Tenterden.  (But  he  can't  help  toeing 
self-conscious  about  it.) 

Broxopp:  (Eagerly.)  My  dearest  Jack !  So  that's 
what  you've  been  trying  to  get  out  all  this  time!  (He 
comes  forward  with  both  hands  held  out.)  But  I'm 
delighted ! 

Jack:  (More  moved  than  he  means  to  show.) 
Thanks,  Dad ! 

Broxopp:  (Pulling  himself  up  humorously.)  Tut, 
tut,  I  was  forgetting.  (Formally.)  May  I  congratu- 
late you,  Mr.  Broxopp. 

Jack :     ( Smiling. )     Silly  old  ass ! 

Broxopp:  (Sitting  on  the  sofa  with  him.)  But  this 
is  wonderful  news.  Why  aren't  you  more  excited? 
(Apologetically.)  I  mean  as  excited  as  Eton  and  Ox- 
ford will  permit? 

Jack:    You  do  like  her? 


226  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  Certainly.  She  has  a  way  of — a  way  of— 
Well,  I  can't  put  it  into  words,  Jack,  but  she's  the  only 
one  of  your  friends  who  has  told  me  frankly  that  she 
doesn't  like  my  tie.  The  others  try  to  convey  the 
impression  that  I'm  not  wearing  a  tie  at  all — that  I  am 
in  Holy  Orders,  or  if  not  in  Holy  Orders,  have  a  very 
large  beard  which — (He  indicates  with  his  hand  how 
such  a  beard  would  completely  cover  his  tie.) 

Jack:  Well,  but  your  tie  is  a  bit — well,  you  know, 
I  mean  frankly,  isn't  it? 

Broxopp:  (Smiling.)  Yes,  but  so  am  I  a  bit — well, 
you  know,  I  mean  frankly,  aren't  I  ?  It  I  hadn't  been, 
you  would  never  have  gone  to  Eton  and  Oxford.  But 
don't  think  I  don't  like  Iris.  I  do — immensely.  Well. 
if  you're  as  happy  together  as  Nancy  and  I  have  been, 
you'll  do.  Twenty-five  years,  Jack,  and  I  always  say 
that 

Jack:    Good  old  Dad.    She's  a  ripper,  isn't  she? 

Broxopp:  (Nodding  to  himself.)  She'll  do  you  a 
lot  of  good.  But  tell  me  more  about  it.  When  did 
you  first  discover  that  she  was — a  ripper? 

Jack:  Oh,  months  ago,  but  we  only  fixed  it  up  at 
that  dance  last  night.  I  pushed  round  this  morning 
to  see  Sir  Roger  and  talk  things  over.  He's  coming 
round  for  a  pow-wow  directly. 

Broxopp:  My  boy  married!  And  it  seems  only 
yesterday  that  your  Mother  and  I  were  just  beginning 
to  keep  house  together,  and  there  was  no  Jack  at  all. 

Jack:  Well,  of  course,  it  seems  longer  ago  than  that 
to  me. 

Broxopp:  (Looking  at  the  picture.)  "I  am  a 
Broxopp  baby,  are  you  ?"  Perhaps  one  of  these  days— 


The  Great  Broxopp  227 

Jack:  Steady  on,  Dad.  You're  not  going  to  talk 
to  Iris  like  that,  I  hope. 

Broxopp:  (With  a  .laugh.)  I  shall  be  strictly 
proper  and  respectable,  my  boy.  Not  a  word  shall 
escape  my  lips  of  which  you  would  disapprove. 

Jack :  You  know  what  I  mean.  When  a  young  girl 
has  only  just  got  engaged,  you  don't  want  to  start 

talking  about 

Broxopp:     (Gravely.)     Say  no  more.     And  so  Sir 
Roger  is  coming  round  too,  is  he? 
Jack :    Yes. 

Broxopp:  What  does  he  say  about  it? 
Jack:  (Knowing  that  it's  got  to  come  now.)  Well, 
that's  just  it.  You  see  Iris  and  I — I  mean  he  and  I — 
well,  of  course  I  always  thought  so — I  mean  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  that  Iris — though  naturally  she 
agrees  with  me — well,  we  think,  I  mean  I  think — oh, 
thank  the  Lord — here  is  Iris. 

(Iris  comes  in  with  Nancy — tall,  cool,  confident 
with  something  of  the  •boy  in  her;  utterly 
honest  and  unafraid.  But  even  if  you  don't 
like  these  qualities,  you  forgive  her  because 
she  is  lovely. ) 

Nancy:    Jack's  told  you,  Jim? 
Broxopp:    Yes,  the  rascal,  Iris!     (He  holds  out  his 
hands  to  her.) 

Iris:  (Taking  them.)  Daddy  Broxopp!  Bend 
down. 

(He   bends   towards  her  and  she  kisses  hint 

gently  on  the  forehead.) 

There !  You  don't  mind  being  called  Daddy  Broxopp ! 
Nancy  doesn't  mind ;  I  mean  being  called  Nancy.  I've 
been  talking  it  over  with  her,  and  she's  going  to  let 
me  call  her  Nancy  because  she's  so  young  and  pretty. 


228  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Enjoying  it.)  And  I'm  not  young  and 
pretty  ? 

Iris:  No,  you're  middle-aged  and  Broxoppy.  It's 
a  nice  thing  to  be. 

Broxopp:  (Taking  her  hands  again.)  Thank  you 
for  thinking  her  young  and  pretty. 

Nancy:  I  don't  feel  very  young,  with  a  big  son 
wanting  to  get  married. 

Iris:  He?  He's  only  a  baby.  (She  blows  a  kiss  to 
the  picture.) 

Jack:     (Resigned.)     Oh,  Lord! 

Broxopp:  Well,  Iris,  if  you're  as  happy  together  as 
Nancy  and  I  have  been,  you'll  do.  Twenty-five  years 
we  have  been  married  and  I  always  say  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Nancy 

Nancy:    (Stopping  him.)    Yes,  dear. 

Iris:  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Nancy,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  a  Jack  for  me  to  marry. 

Broxopp:  Well,  that's  true  .  .  .  And  now,  what 
does  Sir  Roger  say  about  it  ? 

(Jack  and  Iris  look  at  each  other.) 
Hullo,  he  does  say  something  about  it? 

Nancy:    I  think  we'd  better  sit  down,  darling,  and 

(She  leads  the  way  to  the  sofa.) 

(They  sit  down.) 

Broxopp:  Well,  what  is  it?  Jack's  been  trying  to 
get  something  out  for  the  last  five  minutes. 

Iris:  Jack,  you're  a  coward.  I  wasn't.  I  told 
Nancy. 

Jack:  Oh,  all  right  then  .  .  .  Look  here,  Dad, 
you'll  think  me  a  beast  for  what  I'm  going  to  say,  but 
I  want  you  and  Mother  to  understand  that  it's  not  just 
a  sudden  idea  put  into  my  head  by — (He  looks  at  Iris 


The  Great  Broxopp  229 

and  goes  on.)    by  Sir  Roger,  but  it's  what  I've  felt  for 
years. 

Broxopp:    Well? 

(Nancy  takes  his  hand  and  presses  it.) 

Jack:    Well  then— I'm— I'm (From  the  heart.) 

Well,  I'm  simply  fed  up  with  Broxopp's  Beans. 

Broxopp:  (Surprised.)  But — but  you  haven't  had 
them  since  you  were  a  baby. 

Jack:  (Seeing  the  opening.)  Haven't  had  them? 
Have  I  ever  stopped  having  them?  Weren't  they 
rammed  down  my  throat  at  school  till  I  was  sick  of 
them?  Did  they  ever  stop  pulling  my  leg  about  them 
at  Oxford?  Can  I  go  anywhere  without  seeing  that 
beastly  poster — a  poster  of  me — me,  if  you  please — 
practically  naked — telling  everybody  that  I  love  my 
Beans.  (Bitterly.)  Love  them!  Don't  I  see  my 
name — Broxopp,  Broxopp,  Broxopp — everywhere  in 
every  size  of  lettering — on  every  omnibus,  on  every 
hoarding;  spelt  out  in  three  colours  at  night — 
B-R-O-X-O-P-P— until  I  can  hardly  bear  the  sight 
of  it.  Free  bottles  given  away  on  my  birthday,  free 
holidays  for  Broxopp  mothers  to  celebrate  my  coming 
of  age!  I'm  not  a  man  at  all.  I'm  just  a  living  adver- 
tisement of  Beans. 

Broxopp:  (Quietly.)  I  think  that's  putting  it  a 
little  too  strongly,  Jack. 

Nancy  presses  his  hand  and  strokes  it  gently. 

Jack:  I  know  it  is,  but  that's  how  I've  felt  some- 
times. Of  course  I  know  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Broxopp,  I'd  be  sitting  on  a  high  stool  and  lucky  to 
earn  thirty  bob  a  week.  But  you  must  see  my  side  of 
it,  Dad.  I  want  to  paint.  How  can  anyone  called 
Broxopp  be  taken  seriously  as  an  artist?  How  can  I 
make  any  sort  of  name  with  all  those  Beans  and  babies 
overshadowing  me  and  keeping  me  out  of  the  light  ?  I 


230  The  Great  Broxopp 

don't  say  I'm  ever  going  to  be  a  great  painter,  but 
how  do  I  stand  a  chance  as  things  are?  "Have  you 
seen  the  new  Broxopp"?  What's  that  going  to  mean 
to  anybody?  Not  that  I've  painted  a  picture,  but  that 
you've  brought  out  a  new-sized  bottle,  or  a  full 
strength  for  Invalids,  or  something. 

Broxopp:    I  think  you  exaggerate,  Jack. 

Jack:  I  know  I  do.  But  you  can't  get  over  it  that 
it's  going  to  be  pretty  rotten  for  me.  It's  always  been 
rotten  for  me — and  now  it's  going  to  be  rotten  for  Iris. 

Broxopp:  Is  it,  Iris?  You'd  tell  me  the  truth,  I 
know. 

7m:  I  want  to  marry  Jack,  Daddy  Broxopp.  But 
I  don't  want  to  marry  the  Beans.  I  told  Nancy  so. 

Nancy:    (To  Broxopp.}     I  do  understand,  dear. 

Jack:  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  Iris  put  this 
into  my  head.  It's  always  been  there. 

7m:   (Frankly.}    I  expect  I  brought  it  out,  though. 

Broxopfr:    And  what  does  Sir  Roger  say  about  it? 

Jack:  (Bitterly.}  Sir  Roger  says  that  his  grandson 
is  not  going  to  have  a  name  that  every  Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry  gapes  at  on  the  hoardings. 

Iris:  I  ought  to  explain  that  Jack  wants  to  marry 
me,  not  Father's  way  of  expressing  himself.  I  told 
Father  so. 

Jack:  Still,  you  do  see  his — well,  our  point  of  view? 
Don't  you,  Dad? 

Nancy :    Oh  yes,  dear. 

Broxopp:    Certainly,  my  boy. 

Jack:  (Relieved.}  Good  man.  I  thought  you 
would. 

Broxopp:    (Getting  up.}     The  only  thing  I'm  won- 


The  Great  Broxopp  231 

dering  is  whether  there  is  any  chance  of  your  seeing 
mine. 

Jack :    (  Surprised. )     Yours  ? 

Broxopp:  ( On  his  own  hearth — The  Great  Broxopp 
— but  speaking  quietly.)  I  was  educated  at  a  Board 
school,  Iris — I  dare  say  you've  noticed  it.  I  used  to 
drop  my  aitches — I  don't  think  you've  noticed  that — 
Nancy  got  me  out  of  it.  I  wear  funny  clothes — partly 
because  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  name  I  have  made  for 
myself;  partly,  I  dare  say,  because  I've  got  no  taste. 
But,  you  see,  at  fourteen,  the  age  at  which  Jack  went 
to  Eton,  I  was  earning  my  own  living.  I  took  a  resolve 
then.  I  told  myself  that  one  day  I  would  make  my 
name  of  Broxopp,  famous.  I  made  it  famous.  My 
name ;  Broxopp.  Well,  that's  all.  That's  my  point  of 
view.  But  don't  think  I  don't  see  yours. 

(Iris  looks  at  him  wonder ingly  and  then  goes 
over  and  kisses  Nancy.) 

Iris:  (Sitting  by  Nancy's  side.)  You  must  be  very, 
very  proud  of  him. 

Nancy:    I  am,  dear;  he  knows  it. 

Jack:  (Miserably.)  Well,  of  course,  when  you 
talk  like  that,  you  only  make  me  feel  an  utter  beast. 

7m:  (With  a  sigh.)  The  only  thing  is  that  the 
utter  beast  feeling  might  pass  off.  Whereas  the  feeling 
about  Broxopp's  Beans  never  will.  It's  a  rotten  thing 
to  say,  but  I  expect  it's  true. 

(There  is  a  moment's  silence,  broken  by  the 
arrival  of  Sir  Roger  Tenter  den.  He  is  a  mag- 
nificent looking  man,  with  a  military  mous- 
tache and  tight-fitting  black  tail  coat  with  a 
light  waistcoat.  His  manner  is  superb — the 
sort  of  manner  that  can  borrow  a  thousand 
pounds  from  anybody  and  leave  the  creditor 


232  The  Great  Broxopp 

with  the  feeling  that  he  has  had  a  favour  con- 
ferred upon  him.  He  is  an  intense  egotist, 
although  his  company  does  not  always  realise 
it. 

The  three  Broxopps  are  distinctly  over -awed  by 
him;  Jack,  of  course,  less  than  the  other  two.) 
Benham:  (Enjoying  it.)  Sir  Roger  Tenterden! 

(Exit  Benham.} 

Tenterden:  How  do  you  do,  Mrs. — ah — Broxopp. 
(Metaphorically  they  all  stand  to  attention.) 

Nancy:    How  do  you  do,  Sir  Roger? 

Tenterden:    How  do,  Broxopp?    Ah,  Jack — Iris. 

Nancy:    Where  will  you  sit,  Sir  Roger? 

Tenterden:  Don't  trouble,  I  beg  you.  (The  best 
chair  is  ready  for  him.)  I  shall  be  all  right  here.  (He 
sits  down.)  You  will  forgive  me  for  intruding  upon 
you  in  the  morning,  but  having  just  heard  the  great 
news — well,  we  must  congratulate  each  other — eh,  Mrs. 
Broxopp  ?  (He  smiles  pleasantly  at  her. ) 

Nancy:     (Smiling  too.)     Indeed,  we  must. 

Broxopp:  (Flattered.)  That's  very  good  of  you, 
Sir  Roger.  I  need  hardly  say  how  delighted  I  am  that 
Jack  and — er — your  Iris  should  have 

Tenterden:  Quite  so,  quite  so.  Well,  they've  fixed 
it  up  between  themselves  without  cbnsulting  us,  Mrs. 
Broxopp — quite  right  too,  eh,  Iris? — eh,  Jack — 
(He  gives  them  his  pleasant  smile.) — but  we  old  people 
must  come  in  at  the  end  and  have  our  say.  Eh, 
Broxopp? 

Broxopp:  Very  glad  to  talk  over  anything  you  like, 
Sir  Roger — .  Of  course,  I  should  give  Jack  a  suit- 
able allowance 

Tenterden:    (Holding  up  a  protesting  hand.)    Ah, 


The  Great  Broxopp  233 

well — that — I — have  no  doubt  whatever — I  too  would 
see  that  my  daughter — but  all  that  can  be  arranged 
later.  That  goes  without  saying.  But  naturally  there 
are  also  other  matters  which  will  require  to  be  dis- 
cussed. I  don't  know  if  Jack 

Iris:  You  mean  about  the  Beans?  I  told  Daddy 
Broxopp. 

Tenter  den :    (  B  lankly. )    You  told — ah  ? 

Iris:     (Indicating  Broxopp.)     Daddy  Broxopp. 

Broxopp:  (With  a  proud  smile.)  What  she  is 
pleased  to  call  me,  Sir  Roger. 

Tenter  den:  Oh — ah — yes.  Quite  so.  Well  there, 
we  all  understand  the  position.  (With  his  pleasant 
smile.)  That  clears  the  ground,  doesn't  it,  Mrs. 
Broxopp  ? 

Nancy:    It's  much  better  to  have  things  out. 

Tenterden:  You  put  it  admirably.  It  was  with  that 
purpose  that  I  came  round  this  morning.  Jack  had 
given  me  a  hint  of  his  feelings  and — well,  naturally,  I 
had  my  feelings,  too.  It  is  a  matter  which,  after  all, 
concerns  me  very  closely. 

Broxopp :    ( Puzzled. )    Yes  ? 

Tenterden:  Surely,  my  dear  Broxopp!  Iris's  child, 
Jack's  child,  would  be — my  grandson! 

Iris:  (To  Broxopp.)  Father  always  looks  well 
ahead.  They  have  to  in  the  City — don't  they,  father? 

Tenterden:  (Kindly.)  My  dear  Iris,  we  have  to  do 
many  things  in  the  City,  as  Mr.  Broxopp  knows 

Broxopp:  Oh,  I  know  nothing  of  your  part  of  the 
City.  I'm  not  a  financier.  It's  no  good  coming  to  me 
for  a  good  investment. 

Tenterden:  (With  a  bow.)  Then  may  I  hope  that 
you  will  come  to  me  if  ever  you  should  want  one  ? 


234  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Taken  aback.}  Thank  you.  It's  very 
good  of  you,  Sir  Roger. 

Tenter  den:  Not  at  all.  But  I  was  saying  that  we 
need  not  talk  about  the  City  now.  In  all  walks  of  life 
•we  have  to  look  ahead.  And  I  have  to  ask  myself  this, 
Mrs.  Broxopp.  Is  "Roger  Broxopp"  a  desirable  name 
for  my  grandson,  in  the  circumstances? 

7m:  (Tv  Jack.)  Father's  got  as  far  .as  the  chris- 
tening now.  I  shall  have  another  baby  directly. 

Jack:     (Miserably.)     I  wish  he  wouldn't. 

Broxopp:  I  see  your  point  of  view,  Sir  Roger. 
Don't  think  that  I  don't  see  it. 

Tenterden:  (Bowing.)  That  is  very  generous  of 
you.  And  I  think  it  is  important.  There  is — ah — a 
poster  to  which  my  attention  has  naturally  been  called, 
saying — ah — "I  am  a  Broxopp — ah — baby,  are  you?" 
I  think — (He  looks  enquiringly  at  Broxopp.) 

Broxopp:  That's  right,  Sir  Roger.  I  thought  of 
that  twenty-five  years  ago.  Do  you  remember,  Nancy  ? 

Nancy:    (Pressing  his  hand.)     I  remember,  Jim. 

Tenterden:  An  excellent  poster  for  its  purpose,  I 
have  no  doubt,  Mns.  Broxopp.  An  excellent  picture, 
no  doubt,  of  Master  Jack  at  that  age.  (He  smiles  at 
Jack.)  But  seeing  that  all  babies  are  pretty  much 
alike 

Nancy:    (Quickly.)    Oh  no! 

Tenterden:  (With  a  charming  bow.)  Who  would 
contradict  a  woman  on  such  a  question?  Let  me  say 
rather  that  since,  to  the  undiscerning  male,  all  babies 
are  alike,  there  would  be  the  danger,  the  very  serious 
danger,  that  people  might  suppose  the  words  beneath 
the  picture  to  have  been  uttered  by — (he  pauses  dra- 
matically. )  my  grandson ! 

7m:     Roger  Broxopp. 


The  Great  Broxopp  235 

Tenterden:  Exactly.  A  Broxopp  baby.  (To 
Broxopp.)  Of  course  I  am  saying  nothing  against  the 
food,  which  is,  I  am  sure,  admirably  suited  for  its  pur- 
pose. I  am  merely  looking  at  the  matter  in  the  interests 
of — my  grandson. 

Broxopp:  Quite  so,  Sir  Roger,  quite  so.  You  see 
that,  Nancy? 

Nancy:    Oh  yes,  dear. 

Tenterden:  Well,  my  friend  Jack  has  been  talking 
it  over  with  me.  I  think  we  agree  that  (to  Nancy)  for 
Mr.  Broxopp  to  retire  from  the  business — and  I  am 
sure  he  has  well  earned  his  rest  after  all  these  years  of 
strenuous  work — for  him  to  retire  and  settle  down  in 
the  country,  would  not  altogether  meet  the  case.  The 
name  of  Broxopp  would  continue  with  the  business — 
one  could  not  get  away  from  it.  (To  Broxopp.)  I 
think  I  am  right  in  saying  that? 

Broxopp:  Undoubtedly,  Sir  Roger.  The  name  is 
the  business. 

Tenterden:  That  was  my  view.  So  our  friend  Jack 
and  I  think  that  something  more  must  be  done.  A 
question  merely  of  another  name.  He  has  suggested, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Broxopp,  (with  a  bow)  your  name,  Chil- 
lingham. 

Broxopp:    I  don't  quite  understand. 

Tenterden:  Merely  that  you  should  start  your  new 
life — freed  from  the  cares  of  business — as — ah — Chil- 
lingham. 

Broxopp:    Oh! 

Iris:    (To  herself.)     Roger  Chillingham. 

Tenterden:  (Charmingly  to  Nancy.)  A  name  I 
should  be  proud  for  my  grandson  to  bear.  I  seem  to 
remember  a  Chillingham  in  the  Coldstream  with  me 
years  ago.  Are  yours  military  people? 


236  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:  Oh  yes.  My  father  was  a  sergeant-major 
in  the  Wiltshire's. 

Tcntcrdcn:  (Bearing  it  gallantly.}  Ah!  A  young- 
er branch,  no  doubt.  But  it  is  a  good  name,  Chilling- 
ham.  After  all,  why  should  the  wife  always  take  the 
husband's  name?  Eh,  Mrs.  Broxopp?  Why  should 
not  the  husband  take  the  wife's,  the  son  take  the 
mother's  .  .  .  Jack  Chillingham  to  Iris  Tenterden. 
And  a  handsome  couple,  are  they  not  ?  I  shall  be  proud 
of  my  grandson. 

7m:  (Amused,  as  akvays,  by  her  father.)  Say 
something,  Jack.  A  few  words  of  thanks. 

Tenterden:    You  agree  with  me,  Jack? 

Jack:     (Mumbling.)     I've  been  telling  father. 

Broxopp:  Of  course,  I  quite  see  your  point  of  view, 
Sir  Roger.  Don't  think  that  I  don't  see  it  perfectly. 
You  see  it,  don't  you,  Nancy? 

Nancy:  Oh  yes,  dear.  I  should  be  very  proud  for 
you  to  take  my  name.  Just  as  I  was  very  proud  to  take 
yours. 

Tenterden:  Charmingly  put,  Mrs.  Broxopp.  But 
alas!  It  is  no  longer  your  husband's  name.  He  has 
been  too  generous  with  it.  He  has  given  it  to  the  world. 
That  is  what  I  have  to  think  of — for  my  grandson. 
(He  gets  up.)  Well,  Mrs.  Broxopp,  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  listening  to  me  so  courteously,  and  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  we  see  eye  to  eye  in  this 
matter.  Broxopp,  we  must  have  a  talk  some  day  in 
the  City.  And  if  I  can  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  in 
the  matter  of  your  investments,  or  in  any  other  partic- 
ular, pray  regard  me  as  entirely  at  your  service. 

Broxopp:    It's  very  good  of  you,  Sir  Roger. 

Tenterden:  Not  at  all.  Jack,  you're  dining  with  us 
tonight,  I  understand.  If  you  can  spare  him,  Mrs. 
Broxopp.  Well,  I  must  get  along  to  the  City.  Busy 


The  Great  Broxopp  237 

times  just  now.    Good-bye,  and  again  my  apologies  for 
interrupting  your  morning. 

Nancy:     Good-bye,    Sir   Roger.      (She   rings   the 
bell.) 

Tenter  den:  Then  I  shall  be  seeing  you  one  of  these 
days,  Broxopp.  Good-bye ! 

(He  goes  beautifully  out. 

There  is  silence  after  he  has  gone.  The  Broxopps 

are  a  little  overwhelmed. 
Then  Broxopp  goes  over  to  the  fireplace,  and 

stands  with  his  back  to  it.    In  this  position  he 

feels  more  like  himself.} 

Broxopp:    Well,  Jack? 

(Jack  says  nothing.     Iris  goes  over  to  Nancy 
and  sits  beside  her. ) 

Iris:  (To  Nancy.)  He's  a  little  ovenvhelming, 
isn't  he?  But  you  get  used  to  it — and  then  you  aren't 
overwhelmed. 

Nancy:     (Shaking  her  head  at  Iris.)     Iris! 

Iris:  Nancy  thinks  I'm  too  modern.  She's  afraid 
that  when  we  go  out  together,  everybody  will  say, 
"What  a  very  fast  creature,  Mrs.  Broxopp's  elder  sis- 
ter is!" 

Broxopp:    Mrs.  Chillingham's  elder  sister,  isn't  it? 
Iris:    So  it  is,  Daddy  Chillingham. 

Jack:  (Getting  firmly  to  his  feet.)  Look  here,  Dad, 
if  you  don't  change  yours,  I  don't  change  mine.  But 
if  you  think  you  have  given  the  beans  a  good  run  for 
their  money,  and  you  like  to  sell  out  and  settle  down  in 
the  country  as  Chillingham,  well,  I'll  say  thank  you. 
Iris  and  I  have  got  precious  little  right  to  ask  it,  and 
Sir  Roger  has  got  no  right  at  all 


238  The  Great  Broxopp 

Iris:  (Rising  and  protesting  in  the  Tentcrden  man- 
ner.) Surely,  my  dear  Broxopp,  I  have  a  right  to  con- 
sider— my  grandson ! 

Jack:  Shut  up,  Iris,  for  a  moment — no  right  at  all, 
but — but  I'll  thank  you.  Only  I'm  not  going  to  be 
Chillingham  while  you  and  mother  are  Broxopp.  I've 
made  up  my  mind  about  that. 

Iris:  (Taking  his  arm.)  And  I'm  not  going  to  be 
Tenterden,  while  all  of  you  are  Chillingham,  I've  made 
up  my  mind  about  that. 

Broxopp:  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  keep 
on  the  business  as  Chillingham? 

Jack :    (Doub  t  fully. )    N — no. 

Iris:    As  long  as  you  make  Jack  a  good  allowance. 

Jack:    Shut  up,  Iris. 

7m:  Well,  that's  what  it  comes  to,  darling.  We 
may  as  well  be  honest  about  it. 

Nancy:  ( To  Iris. )  Don't  make  it  too  hard  for  him. 
And  of  course  Jim  will  make  him  an  allowance  until 
his  painting  brings  him  in  enough  for  both  of  you. 

Broxopp:  (After  a  pause.)  Jack,  does  Eton  and 
Oxford  allow  you  to  kiss  Iris  sometimes? 

Iris:    I  allow  him  to. 

Broxopp:  Well,  there's  an  empty  drawing-room 
upstairs.  You  will  probably  be  interrupted  by  a  gentle- 
man called  Benham  who  has  a  way  of  coming  in  where 
he's  not  wanted.  But  if  you  tell  him  your  aren't  mar- 
ried to  each  other  he  won't  mind. 

Jack:  (Awkwardly.)  Oh,  it's  all  right — very 
decent  of  you,  but 

7m:  (Getting  up  and  taking  him  firmly  by  the 
arm.)  Come  along. 

Jack:    Yes,  but  hadn't  we  better 


The  Great  Broxopp  239 

Iris:  Jack,  do  you  really  think  Daddy  Broxopp  is 
being  tactful? 

Jack:    Well,  of  course  it's 

Iris:  Oh,  my  dear  we  aren't  the  only  pair  of  lovers 
in  the  house.  Can't  you  see  that  they  want  to  be  alone? 

Jack:    (Stuttering.)     Oh — oh! 
(She  leads  him  away.) 

Broxopp:  (Smiling.)  She'll  teach  you  a  lot,  my 
boy. 

Iris:  (Stopping  beneath  the  picture  with  the  unwill- 
ing Jack. )  Good-bye,  Baby  Broxopp ! 

(She  blows  a  kiss  to  it  and  they  go  out.  Broxopp 
goes  over  to  his  wife  and  sits  on  the  sofa 
with  her.  She  takes  his  hand.) 

Nancy:    Darling,  do  you  mind  very  much? 

Broxopp:  I  wonder  if  Jack's  painting  is  ever  going 
to  come  to  anything. 

Nancy:  He  must  find  that  out  for  himself,  mustn't 
he  ?  We  can't  help  him. 

Broxopp:  Iris  is  a  fine  girl;  I  like  a  girl  who  tells 
the  truth. 

Nancy:  (Smiling  to  herself.)  I  don't  think  you'd 
have  liked  her  to  write  your  advertisements. 

Broxopp:  (Chuckling.)  Well  done,  Nancy.  You've 
got  me  there. 

Nancy:    Say  you  liked  me  doing  them. 

Broxopp:  (Gravely.)  I  liked  you  doing  them. 
I've  liked  everything  you've  ever  done  for  me  .  .  .  All 
the  same,  Nancy,  we  were  truthful.  (After  a  pause.) 
Artistically  truthful.  An  artist  is  a  man  who  knows 
what  to  leave  out.  Did  I  say  that  in  Broxoppiana? 


240  The  Great  Broxopp 

(Remembering  suddenly  that  there  will  never  be  an- 
other edition.}     Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter  now. 

Nancy:  You  won't  mind  very  much?  We've  had 
our  time.  It's  Jack's  time  now. 

Broxopp:  Yes,  we've  had  our  time.  Twenty-five 
years.  After  all,  we've  had  the  best  of  the  fun,  Nancy. 
It's  the  going  there,  not  the  being  there,  that  counts. 
Sir  Roger  is  quite  right  about  the  name.  It  has  been 
a  handicap  to  Jack — I  can  see  it  now.  It  mustn't  be  a 
handicap  to  Jack's  son. 

Nancy:  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  keep 
on  with  the  business  if  you  like. 

Broxopp:     (Doubtfully.}     I  don't  think  Sir  Roger 

Nancy:   But  it's  for  you  to  decide. 

Broxopp:  (Jumping  up.}  No,  I'll  do  the  thing 
handsomely!  You  didn't  marry  a  baronet,  Nancy,  an 
old  county  name,  but  there's  a  Broxopp  way  as  well  as 
a  Tenterden  way.  I  do  my  things  the  Broxopp  way, 
and  the  Great  Broxopp  is  not  the  man  for  half-meas- 
ures. We'll  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it  all.  We'll  rest 
— you  and  I  together  in  the  country — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chillingham.  You've  given  me  everything,  you  won't 
mind  giving  me  your  name? 

Nancy:  (Entranced  by  him.}  Jim,  you  are  the 
Great  Broxopp! 

Broxopp:  (Entranced  by  himself.}  I  am!  (He 
takes  her  hands  and  lifts  her  out  of  the  sofa.}  Propose 
to  me,  Nancy ! 

Nancy:  (Putting  her  arms  round  him.}  Jim,  I 
love  you;  will  you  marry  me  and  live  with  me  in  the 
country  and  take  my  name? 

Broxopp:    I  will.     (He  kisses  her,  twts  her  back  in. 


The  Great  Broxopp  241 

the  sofa  and  goes  to  the  telephone.  It  is  good-bye  now 
to  the  beans.)  Central  99199  .  .  .  Hullo,  is  Mr. 
Morris  in?  Broxopp  speaking  .  .  .  Broxopp  speak- 
ing .  .  .  Good  heavens,  haven't  you  ever  heard  the 
name  of  Broxopp  before?  For  the  last  time — (He 
looks  up  at  Nancy.)  for  the  last  time,  Nancy — (Down 
the  telephone  very  firmly.)  Broxopp  speaking! 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III 

Scene:  The  big  hall  in  the  country  place  which  Mr. 
Chillingham  (nee  Broxopp}  has  bought.  Throng]: 
the  open  front  doors  can  be  seen  a  hint  of  the  drive 
and  the  park  beyond.  It  was  Jack  who  chose  it, 
and  he  has  done  the  Great  Broxopp  rather  well; 
there  was  no  such  view  from  that  third  floor  in 
Bloomsbury. 

It  is  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
Hidden  away  in  a  big  armchair  sits  Nora  Field, 
deep  in  a  book.  She  is  about  twenty,  wears  a  very 
short  tweed  skirt  and  very  serviceable  country 
shoes,  has  very  decided  opinions,  and  no  hesitation 
at  all  about  expressing  them.  Sir  Roger  Tenterden 
comes  in,  and  begins  to  look  about  for  a  paper,  but 
only  finds  Norah. 

Tenterden:  Hullo,  Norah,  didn't  see  you.  Have 
you  seen  the  Financial  Times  anywhere  ? 

Norah:  (Without  looking  up.}  No.  Is  it  any- 
where ? 

Tenterden:  I  had  it  in  here  before  lunch.  Perhaps 
Benham  has  taken  it  away.  (He  rings  the  bell.} 
Where's  everybody? 

Norah:  Jack  and  Iris  are  playing  billiards.  Ron- 
nie's watching  them  and  trying  to  pretend  that  he 
doesn't  want  to  play  himself.  Mr.  Chillingham  is  still 
out,  I  think.  Fishing. 

Tenterden:    Fish  ought  to  be  rising  today. 

Norah :    Yes. 

Tenterden:    And  so  you're  all  alone,  eh? 
242 


The  Great  Broxopp  243 

Norah:  (With  a  meaning  that  escapes  Sir  Roger.) 
I  never  mind  being  alone. 

(Enter  Benham.) 
Benham:    Yes,  sir? 

Tenterden:  Ah,  Benham,  have  you  seen  the  Finan- 
cial Times  anywhere? 

Benham:    Not  since  it  arrived  this  morning,  sir. 
Tenterden :    I  thought  you  might  have  taken  it  away. 
It  was  here  before  lunch. 

Benham:  I  take  in  the  Financial  News  myself, 
sir.  If  you  would  care  to  see  it 

Tenterden:  Thanks.  You  might  bring  it  along  to 
the  morning  room.  And  just  have  a  look  in  the  library 
to  see  if  I  left  the  Times  there. 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 

Tenterden :  And  bring  me  a  whiskey  and  soda  along 
to  the  morning  room,  too.  I  shan't  want  any  tea. 

Benham:    Yes,  sir.    Thank  you,  sir. 
(Exit  Benham.) 

Tenterden:  I  didn't  know  Benham  watched  the 
markets. 

Norah:  I  suppose  he's  wondering  what  to  do  with 
my  ten  shillings  when  I  go. 

Tenterden:  (Hospitably.)  Oh,  you're  not  going 
yet,  I  hope. 

Norah:    No,  not  just  yet. 

Tenterden:  Well,  I  must  get  back  to  my  work. 
There's  some  funny  things  happening  in  the  City  just 
now,  and  one  wants  to  be  pretty  wide  awake. 

Norah:    I  suppose  so. 

(As  Tenterden  goes  out,  Ronny  Derwent  comes 
in.) 


244  The  Great  Broxopp 

Tenterden:  Hullo,  Ronny.  I  suppose  you  haven't 
taken  the  Financial  Times? 

Ronny:  Good  Lord,  no.  What's  the  good  of  it  to 
me?  I  expect  Mr.  Chillingham  had  it  round  his  sand- 
wiches. 

Tenterden :     (  With  a  laugh. )     I  hope  not. 

(Tenterden  goes  out. 

Ronny  is  also  twenty,  but  younger  than  Norah, 
and  with  no  views  on  life  other  than  that 
one's  hair  ought  to  be  kept  well  down.  With- 
out seeing  Norah,  he  rings  the  bell  and  lights 
a  cigarette  while  waiting  for  Benham  to 
come  in. 

Enter  Benham.} 

Ronny:  Oh,  I  want  a  whiskey  and  soda,  please,  Ben- 
ham. 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 

Norah:  (From  her  chair.}  You  don't  really  want 
one,  Ronny. 

Ronny:    Good  Lord !    I  didn't  know  you  were  there. 

Norah:  Mr.  Derwent  won't  have  a  whiskey  and 
soda,  Benham ;  you  can  get  him  a  glass  of  water  if  he's 
thirsty. 

Ronny:  Look  here,  Norah — (She  looks  at  him  and 
he  ends  up  weakly.}  Oh,  very  well. 

Benham:    Will  you  have  the  glass  of  water,  sir? 
Ronny:     (Sulkily.}  No,  thanks. 
Benham:    Thank  you,  sir. 
(Benham  goes  out.} 

Ronny:  I  didn't  know  you  were  here.  All  the 
same,  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  have  a  drink  if  I 
want  one. 

Norah:     I  can't  stand   the  way  you  children  are 


The  Great  Broxopp  245 

always  wanting  to  drink.     You've  done  nothing  to 
make  you  thirsty. 

Ronny:  If  you  knew  a  bit  more,  you'd  know  that 
it's  doing  nothing  that  makes  you  thirsty.  Talk  to  me 
and  I'll  struggle  on  without  it.  What  are  you  reading? 

Norah:  Nobody  you've  ever  heard  of.  A  man 
called  Meredith. 

Ronny :    Oh !    Any  good  ? 

Norah:  (Looking  at  him  with  a  smile.)  In  his 
way.  A  different  way  from  the  Winning  Post,  you 
know. 

Ronny:  (Wanting  to  be  fair.)  Oh  well,  there's  no 
accounting  for  tastes.  Now,  what  do  you  think  I 
found  old  man  Chillingham  reading  last  night  ? 

Norah:     (Returning  to  her  book.)    Don't  know. 

Ronny:    Broxoppiana.     Ever  heard  of  it? 

Norah:    I've  seen  it  on  the  book  stalls. 

Ronny:  Broxoppiana.  That's  the  name  of  the  her- 
oine, I  suppose.  And  no  better  than  she  should  be,  if 
you  ask  me,  because  when  the  old  man  Chillingham 
saw  I  was  looking  he  slipped  the  book  into  his  pocket 
and  pretended  to  be  very  busy  over  another  one. 

Norah:  And  I  suppose  you  looked  over  his  shoulder 
and  found  out  what  that  one  was,  too? 

Ronny:  Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  I  didn't.  I 
knew  what  it  was  without  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
It  was  the  Science  of  Dry  Fly  Fishing.  Old  man 
Chillingham  trying  to  be  a  sportsman  in  his  old  age. 

Norah:  (Shutting  her  book.)  I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter have  that  whiskey  and  soda,  Ronny.  At  any  rate 
it  will  prevent  you  trying  to  discuss  your  host  with 
another  of  his  guests. 

Ronny:    Rot,  old  girl.    Jack's  my  host. 

Norah:    This  is  not  Jack's  house. 


246  The  Great  Broxopp 

Ronny:  Then  why  did  Iris  write  to  me  as  if  it  was? 
"Dear  Ronny,  do  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  us, 
yours  sincerely,  Iris  Chillingham."  How's  that,  eh? 

Norah:  (Patiently.)  It  is  Mr.  Chillingham's 
house,  but  Mrs.  Chillingham  has  been  away  for  a  few 
weeks.  So  Iris  is  playing  hostess.  I  happened  to 
mention  that  I  had  a  disreputable  little  boy  cousin 
called  Ronald  Derwent,  and  she  very  kindly 

Ronny:  Not  so  much  of  it,  Norah.  I  knew  Iris 
before  you  did,  and  I  knew  Jack  as  soon  as  you  did. 
And  if  it's  old  man  Chillingham's  house,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  old  man  Chillingham  has  got  a  very  pretty 
taste  in  claret. 

Norah:  Really,  Ronny,  to  hear  you  talk  about 
claret  anybody  would  think  that  you  were  grown  up. 
Whereas  we  all  know  what  you  do  with  your  three- 
pence a  week  every  Saturday.  Peardrops,  my  lad, 
peardrops. 

Ronny:  (Grimly.)  Very  well,  Norah,  now  you've 
done  for  yourself. 

(He  seises  a  cushion  and  adz'ances  upon  her. 
She  jumps  out  of  the  chair  and  runs  to  the 
other  side  of  the  hall,  picking  up  a  cushion  on 
the  way. ) 

Norah:  You'll  get  your  hair  ruffled  if  you  aren't 
careful. 

Ronny:  You'll  be  lucky  if  you  have  any  hair  left 
by  the  time  I've  finished  with  you.  (He  hurls  a  cush- 
ion at  her.) 

Norah:    Oh,  rotten  shot. 

(He  goes  to  the  sofa  to  get  more  cushions  and 
dodges  behind  it  as  she  flings  hers  at  him. 
She  rushes  to  the  sofa  and  bangs  at  his  head 
as  it  appears  cautiously  over  the  back.  She 


The  Great  Broxopp  247 

runs  back  again  just  as  Benham  is  crossing 
the  hall  with  Sir  Roger's  whiskey  and 
papers. ) 

Ronny:  (Who  is  about  to  throw  a  cushion.)  All 
right,  Benham.  You  go  on. 

Benham:     (Politely.)     After  you,  sir. 

(The  cushion  whizzes  past  Benham' s  head  at 
Norah. ) 

Thank  you,  sir.    (He  goes  on  to  the  morning  room,) 
(Norah  rushes  at  Ronny  and  belabours  him  with 
the  cushion.     Ronny  breaks  away  from  her 
and  runs  out  of  the  hatt,  Norah  in  pursuit, 
knocking  over  a  chair  or  two  on  his  way. 
Benham  comes  back  again.    As  he  crosses  by 
the  window,   Broxopp  is  seen  approaching 
from  the  outside.    Benham  goes  to  the  front 
door  and  opens  it  for  Broxopp. 
Broxopp  is  now  the  complete  country  gentle- 
man with  fishing  outfit.     But  he  looks  un- 
happy in  his  new  clothes  and  is  not  the 
Broxopp  he  was.) 
Broxopp:    Ah,  Benham. 

Benham:     (Taking  his  things.)    Any  sport,  sir? 
Broxopp:     No  .  .  .  That  is  to  say,  /  didn't  have 
any.    I  can't  speak  for  the  fish. 

Benham:  I've  heard  gentlemen  say  that  it  can  be  a 
very  attractive  recreation  even  when  (he  looks  into  the 
obviously  empty  basket) — as  in  this  case,  sir. 

Broxopp:  To  a  man  who  really  enjoys  fishing — as 
I  am  told  I  do — no  doubt  that  is  so. 

Benhcem:    Yes,  you're  quite  an  enthusiast,  sir. 

Broxopp:  So  they  assure  me,  Benham.  Golf  is  an- 
other pastime  to  which — I  understand — I  am  devoted. 
(He  looks  in  astonishment  at  the  disordered  hall,  with 


248  The  Great  Broxopp 

its  overturned  chairs  and  scattered  cushions.)      Has 
anything  been  happening? 

Benham:  (As  he  begins  to  restore  the  place  to 
order.)  Nothing  at  all  out  of  the  way,  sir. 

Broxopp :    ( Surprised. )     Oh ! 

Benham:  Quite  a  feature  of  the  best  country-house 
life,  sir,  as  you  might  say.  The  younger  members  of 
the  party  are  often  extremely  partial  to  it.  In  this 
case,  sir,  Mr.  Derwent  and  Miss  Field  were  letting  off 
their  high  spirits  with  a  few  cushions.  It  brought  back 
the  old  castle  days  very  pleasurably,  sir. 

Broxopp:  Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  They  come  back, 
the  old  days,  don't  they,  Benham? 

Benham:    They  do  indeed,  sir. 

Broxopp:  (With  a  sigh.)  Yes.  Mrs.  Giillingham 
has  not  arrived  yet,  I  suppose  ? 

Benham:  No,  sir.  Is  she  expected  back  this  after- 
noon? 

Broxopp:  Of  course  she  is.  The  4.10.  (Looking 
at  his  watch.)  I  suppose  the  train  was  late.  Didn't 
Mr.  Jack  tell  you  about  sending  in  the  car? 

Benham:  I  have  not  had  any  instructions  myself, 
sir,  but  no  doubt  he  informed  the  chauffeur.  He  was 
down  at  the  stables  after  lunch  with  Mr.  Derwent. 

Broxopp:     Ah,  yes  .  .  .  Well,   I'll  go  and  wash. 
(He  moves  off.) 
Benham:    Thank  you,  sir. 
(Benham  goes  off. 
Broxopp  is  still  in  the  hall,  putting  a  cushion  or 

two  straight,  when 

Ronny  comes  back,  his  hair  rather  rumpled. ) 
Ronny:    Hullo!    Any  luck? 


The  Great  Broxopp  249 

Broxopp:  (Wishing  to  be  fair  to  the  sport.)  Com- 
pared with  yesterday — yes. 

Ronny:    What  happened  yesterday? 
Broxopp:    I  fell  in. 

Ronny:  (Tittering.)  Bad  luck.  I'm  not  fright- 
fully keen  on  fishing  myself — I  prefer  golf.  We're 
having  a  foursome  after  tea;  I  expect  you'd  rathet 
practice  by  yourself,  wouldn't  you? 

Broxopp:  Thank  you,  I  shall  not  be  playing  golf 
after  tea  today. 

Ronny:  I  thought  you  were  so  frightfully  keen. 
Jack  said  so. 

Broxopp:  Ah,  well,  Jack  would  know.  But,  you 
see,  Mrs.  Chillingham  will  be  here  directly 

Ronny:    (Surprised.)    Oh,  is  she  coming  back? 

Broxopp:  (Nodding.)  Yes.  She  has  been  away 
three  weeks  now,  staying  in  London  with  her  sister. 
She'll  be  glad  to  get  back.  She  is  very  fond  of  the 
country,  you  know.  And  this  house. 

Ronny:  (Kindly.)  Well,  it  isn't  half  a  bad  place, 
really.  I  don't  know  what  the  shooting's  like. 

Broxopp:  Very  good,  Jack's  friends  tell  me  ... 
Well,  I  must  go  and  wash,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  Mr. 
Derwent. 

Ronny:    (With  a  nod.)     Righto. 

(Broxopp  goes  out. 

Ronny  lights  a  cigarette  and  goes  across  to  the 

billiard-room  door  and  opens  it.) 
Good  Lord,  haven't  you  finished  yet? 
Jack:    (From  inside.)    This  very  minute  as  ever  is. 

(7m  and  Jack  come  out  together.) 
Iris:     Mrs.   Chillingham  junior  ran  out  a  winner 


250  The  Great  Broxopp 

with  an  unfinished  break  of  two  .  .  .  My  dear  Ronny, 
what  have  you  been  doing  to  your  hair  ? 

Ronny:  (Looking  at  himself  in  the  glass — horri- 
fied.) Good  Lord,  I  oughtn't  to  be  seen  like  this.  (He 
hurries  out.) 

Jack:  I  suppose  I  was  as  young  as  Ronny  once,  but 
it  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago.  He  makes  me  feel 
an  old,  old  man. 

Iris:  (Smiling  at  him.)  You  don't  look  it,  you 
know. 

Jack:  That's  because  I'm  such  a  good  actor.  (He 
goes  to  the  bell  and  rings  it.)  Shall  we  have  tea  in 
here? 

Iris:    If  you  like. 

Jack:  I  suppose  Dad  isn't  back  yet  .  .  .  (sud- 
denly in  dismay. )  Oh,  Lord ! 

Iris:    What  is  it,  darling ?    Have  you  been  bad ? 

Jack:     I'm  a  blessed  idiot. 

Benham:     (Coming  in.)     Yes,  sir? 

Jack:    Benham,  is  anyone  meeting  the  4.10? 

Benham:  I  have  given  no  instructions  in  the  matter 
myself,  sir. 

Iris:  Jack,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  nobody  is  meet- 
ing Nancy? 

Jack:  Kick  me  if  you  like,  darling.  It's  my  fault 
entirely.  (Looking  at  his  watch.)  Send  the  car  at 
once,  Benham.  It  will  probably  be  too  late,  but  it  can 
bring  the  luggage  along. 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 

Jack :  ( To  Iris. )  I'm  afraid  she'll  walk  through  the 
woods,  you  know.  (To  Benham.)  We'll  have  tea  in 
here. 


The  Great  Broxopp  251 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 
(Exit  Benham.} 

Iris:    Jack,  you  have  been  bad. 

Jack:  I  know.  I  told  Dad  this  morning  to  leave  it 
all  to  me.  That's  what  comes  of  getting  so  old — your 
memory  goes. 

7m:    I  do  wish  this  hadn't  happened. 

Jack:  After  all,  darling,  it's  only  a  mile  by  the  short 
way  and  it's  a  jolly  afternoon.  There  won't  be  any- 
thing about  it  in  the  papers. 

7m:  Nancy  will  think  that  when  she  goes  away  I 
just  take  possession  of  her  house  and  ask  my  own 
friends  down,  and  don't  even  trouble  to  send  a  car  to 
meet  her  at  the  station. 

Jack:  Anyone  who  knows  Mother  knows  that  she 
never  thinks  things  like  that. 

7m:  I  know.  That  seems  to  make  it  worse.  (She 
sits  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.)  Jack,  don't  you  think  it's 
time  we  had  a  house  of  our  own  ?  This  has  been  very 
jolly  here  for  a  few  months  but — you  do  want  to  get 
started  on  your  work,  don't  you  ? 

Jack:  Of  course  I  do,  sweetheart.  Only  we  can't 
begin  till  we  get  the  studio,  can  we? 

Iris:    London's  full  of  studios,  lazy  one. 

Jack:  Yes,  but  you  don't  realise  how  important  it 
is  to  an  artist  to  get  the  exact  surroundings.  And  now 
that  we've  found  the  studio  in  all  London,  and  the  man 
who's  in  it  happens  to  be  leaving  in  six  months,  it's  ab- 
surd to  go  looking  about  for  another.  It's  simply  a 
question  of  waiting. 

7m:    Six  months? 

Jack:  Well,  if  we're  lucky,  he  may  die  before.  But 
we  can't  count  on  it. 


252  The  Great  Broxopp 

Iris:  (Unconvinced.}  Oh,  well  .  .  .  Well,  I'm 
glad  Nancy  is  coming  back  today. 

Jack:  After  all,  darling,  it  was  more  or  less  up  to 
us  to  give  Dad  and  Mother  a  start  with  their  new  house. 
They've  lived  in  London  so  long  that — well — I  mean, 
naturally  they  wanted  a  bit  of  a  start. 

Iris:  When  Nancy  is  here,  she  looks  as  if  she  had 
lived  in  this  sort  of  house  all  her  life.  She's  just  part 
of  it. 

Jack:  (Digesting  this  new  idea.)  Do  you  know, 
that's  quite  true,  Iris.  I'd  never  really  thought  about  it, 
but — yes,  she  does  go  with  it  somehow. 

Iris:    She  loves  it.    She's  awfully  happy  here. 

Jack:    Of  course  she  is.     So's  Dad. 

Iris:  (Looking  at  him  with  a  smile.)  Do  you  think 
so? 

Jack:  (Confidently.)  Oh,  rather!  Why,  my  dear 
girl,  just  look  at  the  difference  between  a  place  like  this 
and  that  awful  office  and  factory  in  London.  And  look 
at  his  life  now.  Why,  he  never  had  a  moment  to  him- 
self before,  and  now  he  can  do  what  he  likes  all  day 
.  .  .  Money!  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  money.  Re- 
flection by  John  James  Chillingham. 

Iris:    You  can't  get  money  without  work. 

Jack :  Yes,  but  when  you've  got  the  money,  why  go 
on  working? 

Iris:    We  haven't  even  begun  yet. 

Jack:  (Lazily.)  You  should  read  your  Bible  more. 
Moses  or  somebody  said  that  no  husband  ought  to  do 
any  work  for  a  year  after  he's  married.  I  quite  agree 
with  him.  (Playing  with  her  hair.)  Did  I  ever  tell 
you  that  I  much  prefer  your  hair  to  the  stuff  you  see 
hanging  in  shop  windows  in  Bond  Street? 

Iris :    (  Softly. )    Do  you  ? 


The  Great  Broxopp  253 

Jack:    It  comes  down,  doesn't  it? 
Iris:    Yes,  when  you  take  the  pins  out. 

Jack:.  Wonderful  hair  .  .  .  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that 
I  like  your  eyes  much  better  than  the  ones  you  see 
lying  about  in  fishmongers'  shops  next  to  the  ice? 

7m:     (Smiling.)     Do  you? 

Jack:    They've  got  so  much  more  expression  .  .  . 
Did  I  ever  tell  you — hullo,  here's  tea. 
(Benham  comes  in.) 

Has  the  car  gone,  Benham? 

Benham:    Yes,  sir. 

Jack:    Good.    Let's  hope  the  train's  late. 

Benham:  (Arranging  the  tea.)  I'm  afraid  it  is  not 
very  likely,  sir,  I  remember  his  Grace  once  commenting 
on  the  curious  fact  that,  whenever  one  particularly 
wished  a  train  to  be  late,  it  was  invariably  punctual. 

Jack:  His  Grace  seems  to  have  been  a  highly  original 
thinker. 

Benham:  Yes,  sir,  he  was  very  well  tolerated  in  the 
family. 

Jack :  Well,  this  must  seem  rather  a  holiday  for  you 
after  the  intellectual  life  at  the  castle.  You  must  make 
the  most  of  it,  Benham. 

Benham:    Thank  you,  sir. 

Iris:    Is  Mr.  Chillingham  back  yet? 

Benham:  Yes,  madam.  He  will  be  down  directly. 
Sir  Roger  is  engaged  in  the  morning-room,  Madam, 
with  the  financial  papers,  and  will  not  require  tea. 

Iris:    Thank  you. 

Benham :    Thank  you,  madam. 
(Exit  Benham.) 

Iris:    I  wonder  what  Father's  up  to  now? 


254  The  Great  Broxopp 

Jack:  (Carelessly.}  Losing  Dad's  money  for  him, 
I  expect. 

Iris:  (Seriously.)  Jack,  you  don't  really  mean 
that? 

Jack:    (Laughing.)    Of  course  not,  darling. 

Iris:  Father  has  such  a  way  of  losing  other  people's 
money  with  an  air  of  conferring  a  favour  upon  them 
that  it's  very  difficult  to  know  what  is  happening  some- 
times. But  still,  I  suppose  he  does  know  all  about 
stocks  and  shares  and  things. 

Jack:  (Lazily.}  He  thinks  he  does,  anyway.  Well, 
I'm  glad  /  don't.  What's  the  matter  with  giving  me 
some  tea  ?  We  needn't  wait  for  Dad.  ( To  Norah  and 
Ronny  as  they  come  in.}  Come  along,  you're  just  in 
time  ....  Ah,  now  you  look  quite  nice  again,  Ronny. 
(They  all  sit  around  the  tea-things.) 

Iris:    What  had  you  been  doing  to  him,  Norah  ? 

Norah:  I  told  him  he  wasn't  grown-up  yet,  and  he 
tried  to  prove  he  was  by  throwing  cushions  at  me. 

Jack:  That's  a  nasty  one,  Ronny.  You'll  have  to 
write  to  your  solicitors  about  that. 

Ronny:  ( Taking  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter. )  Now, 
look  here,  I  don't  want  any  more  of  it,  Norah.  I'm 
older  than  you,  anyway.  And  Jack  and  Iris  aren't  ex- 
actly bald  yet  .  .  .  What  about  that  foursome  after 
tea? 

Jack:  Iris  and  I  are  ready.  (To  Iris.)  We'll 
put  it  across  them  this  time,  won't  we  ? 

Iris:  (Doubtfully.)  Well,  I'm  not  quite  sure  if 
j 

Ronny:  If  you're  thinking  about  Mr.  Chillingham, 
he  doesn't  want  to  play.  I  asked  him. 

Iris:  Oh,  well,  then,  that's  all  right.  He  wants  to 
wait  for  Nancy,  I  expect.  Bless  them. 


The  Great  Broxopp  255 

Norah:  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  approve  of  this 
old-fashioned  sentiment  about  married  life. 

Jack:  I  say,  this  is  rather  alarming.  (Anxiously.) 
You  don't  mind  Iris  and  me  being  in  love  with  each 
other  ? 

Norah :  In  the  first  year  of  marriage,  no,  as  long  as 
it's  not  obtrusive. 

Iris:  (Turning  away.)  Jack,  turn  the  other  way 
at  once. 

(Jack  turns  his  back  to  Iris.) 

Norah:    But  women  will  never  be  properly  free 

Ronny:     (Offering  plate.)     Oh,  Lord,  have  a  bun. 

Norah:     (Taking  one.)  — until  it  is  recognised  that 

marriage 

(Broxopp  comes  in.) 

Jack:    Hallo,  Dad,  what  luck? 

Broxopp:  (Sitting  in  an  uncomfortable  chair,  a  lit- 
tle way  from  the  table.)  Ah,  tea. 

Jack:    Fish  rising? 

Broxopp:  They  may  have  risen,  Jack,  but  if  so  they 
went  back  again.  (Looking  at  his  watch.)  The  train's 
very  late.  She  ought  to  have  been  here  by  now. 

Iris:  There  was  some  mistake  about  the  car,  dear. 
She  will  be  here  directly.  (She  gives  Broxopp  his 
tea.) 

Broxopp:    Thank  you,  thank  you. 

Norah:  I  was  just  saying,  Mr.  Chillingham,  that 
women  will  never  be  properly  free  until  it  is  recog- 
nised that  marriage  is  only  an  intellectual  partnership 
in  which  both  the  contracting  parties  have  equal  rights. 
Of  course,  I  can  hardly  expect  you  to  agree  with  me. 

Broxopp:  (Looking  blankly  at  her.)  I'm  afraid 
I 


256  The  Great  Broxopp 

Ronny:  Agree  with  you?  I  should  think  not  in- 
deed. If  you  knew  a  little  more  about  the  world, 
Norah 

Norah:  My  dear  Ronny,  the  only  world  that  you 
know  is  bounded  on  the  north  by  Newmarket,  on  the 
south  by  the  Savoy,  on  the  east  by  the  Empire,  and  on 
the  west  by  the  Winning  Post. 

Iris:  You'll  have  to  write  to  your  solicitors  again, 
Ronny. 

Jack:  I  say,  Norah,  you  mustn't  say  things  like  that 
without  warning.  Must  she,  Dad?  Bread  and  but- 
ter? (He  offers  the  plate  to  Broxopp  who  takes  a 
piece.) 

Broxopp:  (Bewildered.)  I'm  afraid  I  hardly 

Thank  you. 

Iris:    Was  that  original,  Norah? 

Norah:  (Calmly.)  Perfectly.  Why  not?  I  sup- 
pose Jack  thinks  that  all  the  clever  things  must  be  said 
by  men.  I  don't  know  what  you  feel  about  it,  Mr. 
Chillingham 

Broxopp:    I — er 

Jack:  Then  all  I  can  say  is  that  you  must  have 
bribed  Ronny  to  lead  up  to  it. 

Iris:  They've  been  rehearsing  all  the  afternoon,  I 
expect.  Norah's  cue  was  "world."  (To  Jack.)  Shall 
we  let  them  do  it  again  ? 

Jack:  Come  on,  Ronny.  "If  you  knew  a  little  more 
about  the  world,  Norah 

Iris:  "My  dear  Ronny,  the  only  world  that  you 
know " 

Jack:  They  could  go  on  at  the  Palladium  as 
"Ronald  and  Norah."  Ronald  leaning  over  the  piano 
in  white  gloves. 


The  Great  Broxopp  257 

Iris:  Norah  in  a  smile  and  shoulder  straps  looking 
at  him  over  the  music. 

Norah:  (To  Broxopp.}  This,  Mr.  Chillingham,  is 
the  marriage  of  intellect  on  an  equal  basis,  which  I  was 
advocating  just  now. 

Broxopp:    You — er — were  advo ? 

Jack:  Ronny,  it's  your  turn  to  say  something  bril- 
liant. 

Ronny:  No,  thanks,  I'll  leave  that  to  Norah's  hus- 
band. When  they  are  living  in  intellectual  companion- 
ship together,  they  can  fire  off  epigrams  at  each  other 
all  day  long.  What  a  life !  Don't  you  agree  with  me, 
Mr.  Chillingham?  Have  another  bun,  won't  you?  (He 
takes  one  himself.) 

Broxopp:  Miss  Field  was  talking  about  the  mar- 
riage of  intellects.  I  remember — (To  Ronny  with  the 
bun  plate.)  No,  thank  you. 

Norah:  Don't  eat  too  many,  Ronny.  We've  got  to 
beat  them  afterwards,  you  know.  You're  not  playing, 
Mr.  Chillingham? 

Broxopp:    No,  I  think  I 

Jack:  Beat  us,  indeed.  I  should  like  to  see  you  do 
it. 

Ronny:  Well,  you  will,  Jack,  old  boy.  What  shall 
we  give  them  this  time,  Norah?  A  third?  I  should 
think  a  third;  wouldn't  you,  Mr.  Chillingham? 

Broxopp:    I'm  afraid  I  don't 

Norah:  What  would  you  like,  Iris,  or  would  you 
rather  play  level  for  once? 

Iris:  (To  Jack.)  Aren't  they  delightful ?  They've 
been  rehearsing  this,  too,  I  expect. 

Jack:  (Handing  his  cup.)  Stop  being  funny,  and 
let  me  finish  my  tea. 


258  The  Great  Broxopp 

Iris:  (To  Broxopp.}  You'll  want  to  wait  for 
Nancy,  won't  you,  dear? 

Ronny:  Do  play  if  you'd  like  to,  you  know.  Of 
course,  it  will  dish  the  foursome  rather,  but 

Broxopp:  Thank  you,  Mr.  Derwent,  but  I  shall  be 
waiting  for  Mrs.  Chillingham. 

Norah:  I  was  saying-  just  now,  Mr.  Chillingham, 
that  I  don't  altogether  approve  of  married  people — 

Jack:  Help!  She's  leading  up  to  her  epigram 
again. 

Broxopp:    Yes,  Miss  Field? 

Ronny:  I  say,  don't  encourage  her,  we've  had  it 
all  once.  (He  takes  a  bun.) 

Norah:  (Taking  it  away  from  him.)  No  more, 
Ronny,  thank  you.  Remember  we've  got  to  beat  them. 

Ronny:  (Getting  up.)  Right  you  are,  old  girl. 
( To  Iris. )  Are  you  ready  ? 

Iris:  I  think  so,  aren't  we,  Jack?  (To  Broxopp.) 
Will  you  have  some  more  tea,  dear? 

Broxopp:  Not  now,  thank  you,  Iris.  I'll  wait  for 
Nancy. 

Jack:  (Finishing  his  tea.)  I  say,  what's  the 
hurry?  I've  only  just  begun. 

Ronny:    Rot.    Come  on. 

7m:  (Getting  up.)  I'll  have  half-a-crown  on  it, 
Norah. 

Norah :    Done. 

Ronny:    You  too,  Jack? 

Jack:    Rather! 

Ronny:  Goodman.  What  about  Mr.  Chillingham  ? 
Care  to  bet  against  us?  I'll  give  you  five  to  four  as 
you're  a  friend. 


The  Great  Broxopp  259 

Broxopp:    No,  I  think  not,  thank  you,  Mr.  Derwent. 

Ronny:  Perhaps  you're  wise.  You  wouldn't  have 
a  chance.  Come  along. 

Iris:  Benham  will  make  some  fresh  tea,  dear.  Give 
Nancy  a  special  kiss  from  me. 

Broxopp:     Thank  you,  Iris,  I  will 

Norah:  (At  the  door.}  The  whole  question  of 
kissing  seems  to  me 

Ronny:    Oh,  come  off  it.     (He  drags  her  away.) 

Jack:     Cheer   oh,   Dad!     You   and   mother  might 
come  along  and  watch  us  if  you've  nothing  better  to 
do.     (To  Ronny  in  front.)     All  right,  we're  coming. 
(Jack  and  Iris  go  out. 

Left  alone  Broxopp  rings  the  bell  and  then  sits 
down  in  rather  a  bewildered  way. 
Benham  comes  in.) 

Broxopp:  We  shall  want  some  fresh  tea  for  Mrs. 
Chillingham  when  she  comes  in. 

Benham:  Yes,  sir.  I  think  I  saw  her  just  coming 
through  the  rose  garden,  sir. 

Broxopp:  (Jumping  up  and  going  to  the  door.) 
Coming  through  the — you  don't  mean  to  say  that — 
Why,  Nancy!  (He  brings  her  in.)  Benham,  get  that 
fresh  tea  at  once ! 

Benham:     (Going  to  tea  table.)     Yes,  sir. 

Nancy:  How  are  you,  Benham?  Isn't  it  nice  to  be 
back?  Yes,  I  should  like  some  tea,  please.  And  you 
had  better  send  the  car  for  my  luggage. 

Broxopp:    Your  luggage?    You  don't  mean 

Benham:    The  car  has  gone,  madam. 

Nancy:    Ah,  that's  right. 
(Benham  goes  out.) 

Broxopp:     (Horrified.)     Nancy,  you  weren't  met? 


260  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:  No,  darling,  I  suppose  there  was  some  mis- 
take. 

Broxopp:  (Throwing  up  his  hands  in  despair.)  I 
thought  I  could  leave  that  much  to  Jack.  Well,  let's 
have  a  look  at  you.  (He  holds  her  at  arms'  length.) 
And  they  forgot  all  about  you! 

Nancy:  Oh,  but  I  enjoyed  the  walk,  you  know.  The 
woods,  Jim!  You  never  saw  anything  like  them  just 
now. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  well,  nothing  matters  now  you're 
here.  (He  kisses  her.)  Do  you  know  Miss  Norah 
Field,  Nancy? 

Nancy:  I  expect  she  was  at  the  wedding,  wasn't 
she?  Iris  told  me  she  wanted  to  ask  her  here.  Is  she 
nice? 

Broxopp:  (Kissing  her  again.)  She  doesn't  ap- 
prove of  kissing. 

Nancy:  (Sitting  down  at  the  tea  table.)  Perhaps 
she's  never  tried. 

Enter  Benham. 

Tea,  how  nice.    You  must  have  it  with  me,  Jim. 

Broxopp:     (Firmly.)     I'm  going  to. 

Benham:    Is  there  anything  more,  Madam? 

Nancy:  No,  thank  you.  Are  you  quite  well,  Ben- 
ham? 

Benham:  Yes,  thank  you,  madam.  Pretty  well, 
considering. 

Nancy:    That's  right. 
(Benham  goes  out. 
As    soon    as    they    are    alone,    Nancy    blows 

Broxopp  a  kiss  and  then  pours  out  the  tea.) 
Nancy:    Well,  how  has  everybody  been  getting  on 
without  me? 


The  Great  Broxopp  261 

Broxopp:     (Tapping  his  chest.)     Me? 

Nancy:     You,   and  everybody — Is   Sir   Roger  still 

here? 

Broxopp:    Oh,  yes. 

Nancy:  Well,  all  of  you.  And  the  garden,  and  the 
puppies.  Oh,  I  asked  you  to  tell  me  and  you  never 
did.  Has  the  moorhen  had  any  babies  yet? 

Broxopp:    (Bewildered.)     Moorhen? 

Nancy:  The  one  on  the  pond.  Don't  say  that  the 
tulips  are  over.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  Oh,  Jim,  the  blue- 
bells in  the  wood !  Will  you  come  with  me  and  see  the 
puppies  after  tea? 

Broxopp:  Of  course  I  will  .  .  .  Bread  and  butter, 
or  what  will  you  have?  (He  offers  her  a  plate.) 

Nancy:  No,  I  won't  have  anything  to  eat.  (Look- 
ing round  the  hall.)  Oh,  it  is  lovely  to  be  back.  Have 
you  been  very  lonely  without  me? 

Broxopp:    Very. 

Nancy:  The  one  letter  I  had  from  Jack  seemed  to 
say  that  you  were  all  enjoying  yourselves  very  much. 
What  have  you  been  doing?  You  didn't  tell  me  much 
about  yourself. 

Broxopp:  Oh,  fishing,  golf — all  the  things  that  a 
country  gentleman  does.  Talking  to  Jack  and  his 
friends.  (Grimly.)  They  are  wonderful  talkers. 

Nancy:     (Proudly.)     So  are  you,  Jim. 

Broxopp:  (Shaking  his  head.)  The  world  is  get- 
ting too  quick  for  me.  When  I  talk,  I  like  to  finish 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  never  seem  to  have  a  chance 
now  .  .  .  But  never  mind  about  me.  Tell  me  about 
yourself.  Did  you  have  a  comfortable  journey? 

Nancy:    It's  always  comfortable  first  class. 


262  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Eagerly.}  And  how's  old  London  look- 
ing? 

Nancy:     (Smiling.)     Just  the  same. 

Broxopp:  (Casually.}  You  didn't  happen  to  be 
Fenchurch  Street  way  at  all  any  time  ? 

Nancy:  Oh,  no.  I  don't  suppose  anybody  would 
have  known  me. 

Broxopp:  (Eagerly.}  Old  Carter  would — I  sup- 
pose he's  still  there.  They  wouldn't  get  rid  of  Carter. 
He  always  used  to  remember  how  you  came  up  the 
first  day  we  opened  the  office,  and  I'd  had  lunch  sent 
in — do  you  remember? — and  a  bottle  of  champagne. 
The  first  champagne  you'd  ever  had — do  you  remem- 
ber, Nancy? — and  how  frightened  you  were  when  the 
cork  came  out. 

Nancy:     (Gently.}     I  remember,  Jim. 

Broxopp:  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  just  have 
passed  by  outside — on  your  way  somewhere.  (Wisi- 
fully.}  I  suppose  you  still  see  the  same — the  same 
advertisements  everywhere?  Have  we — have  they  got 
any  new  ones. 

Nancy:    I  didn't  notice  any. 

Broxopp:  (Nodding  his  head.}  They  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  the  old  ones.  (After  a  pause.}  Of  course, 
there  are  new  ideas  (He  gets  up  and  walks  about}  — 
there  was  one  I  was  thinking  of  this  morning  when  I 
was  out — nothing  to  do  with  me  now — I  just  hap- 
pened to  think  of  it.  (He  is  carried  away  by  it  as  he 
goes  on.}  I  don't  know  if  you've  ever  seen  a  m~v; 
drawing  on  a  film — you  see  a  few  lines  first  which 
mean  nothing,  and  then  gradually  it  begins  to  tal  c 
shape.  Well,  you'd  have  your  posters  like  that — alter- 
ing every  week.  A  large  poster  with  just  a  few  mean- 
ingless lines  on  it.  Everybody  would  wonder  what  it 


The  Great  Broxopp  263 

meant.  They'd  all  talk  about  it.  Next  week  a  few 
more  lines  added.  It  still  means  nothing,  but  one  sees 
just  a  vague  hint  of  a  picture  coming.  Everybody  still 
talking  about  it.  Next  week  a  curve  here  and  there,  a 
bit  of  shading  somewhere.  People  get  more  and  more 
interested.  What  is  coming?  And  so  it  goes  on.  And 
then  in  the  last  week,  the  lines  all  join  together,  some 
of  them  become  writing,  you  see  "BROXOPPS— 
(He  breaks  off,  pulls  himself  together,  and  says 
casually.}  The  idea  just  came  to  me  this  morning 
when  I  was  out.  Of  course,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me 
now.  (He  gives  a  little  laugh  and  sits  down  again.) 

Nancy:  (Who  has  been  watching  him  intently.) 
It's  a  wonderful  idea. 

Broxopp:  (Pleased.)  Not  bad,  is  it?  (With  an 
effort.)  However,  that's  nothing  to  do  with  it,  now. 

Nancy:  (Slowly  to  herself.)  I  think  perhaps  it 
has. 

Broxopp:  (Trying  to  get  away  from  his  thoughts.) 
And  how  did  you  leave  Emily? 

Nancy:  (Thinking  of  other  things.)  Oh,  she  was 
very  well  when  I  left.  Better  than  I've  seen  her  lately. 

Broxopp:    Sorry  to  let  you  go,  I  expect. 
Nancy:     She  was  very  glad  when  I  came.     She'd 
had  rather  a  fright  about  her  money. 
Broxopp:     Oh,  what  was  that? 

Nancy:  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  understood  it  all, 
but  there  was  some  Building  Society — the  Excelsior, 
I  think  it  was  called — a  very  good  investment,  all  the 
advertisements  said — and  she  sold  all  her  shares  in  or- 
der to  put  it  into  this,  and  then  a  man  she  met — some- 
body who  really  does  know — told  her  it  was 

Broxopp :    Fraudulent  ? 


264  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:  Well,  that  she'd  lose  all  her  money.  And 
so  she  had  to  buy  back  all  the  shares  she  had  sold,  and 
pay  much  more  for  them.  I  don't  know  why. 

Broxopp:    Price  gone  up,  I  suppose. 

Nancy:  Oh,  would  that  be  it ?  Well,  it  wasn't  very 
nice  for  her.  But,  of  course,  she's  thankful  when  she 
thinks  of  what  might  have  happened. 

Broxopp:  Funny  how  everybody  thinks  that  he 
can  make  money  in  the  City.  People  say  to  me,  "You're 
a  business  man."  I  say,  "I'm  not  a  business  man.  I'm 
an  artist.  I  have  large  ideas.  But  I  know  my  limita- 
tions. I  employ  business  men.  That's  why  I've  built 
up  such  a  good  business."  In  the  same  way  I  employ 
Sir  Roger.  He  knows;  I  don't.  But  Sir  Roger 
couldn't  have  made  Broxopp. 

Nancy:  I've  been  thinking  about  Sir  Roger.  Does 
he  know? 

Broxopp:    (A  little  alarmed.}     What  do  you  mean, 

Nancy  ? 

Nancy:  Of  course,  he's  quite  honest,  but  I  think 
sometimes  we've  been  rather  foolish  in  letting  him 
have  so  much  to  say  in  the  investing  of  your  money. 
I  suppose  'you  keep  an  eye  on  things  for  yourself? 

Broxopp:  (Hastily.)  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  do  ... 
He  is  a  little  difficult  to — er — I  mean  he  has  rather 
a  way  with  him,  which —  But  I  must  certainly  go 
into  things  with  him.  You're  quite  right,  Nancy.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  Sir  Roger  or  anybody  else  play  ducks 
and  drakes  with  the  money  which  /  earned.  (He  looks 
round  the  hall,  and  then  says,  proudly.)  And  I  started 
at  six  shillings  a  week!  (Bitterly.)  Let  Mr.  Ronny 
Derwent  do  that  if  he  can. 

Nancy:   (Going  to  him.)   I'm  sure  Mr.  Ronny  Der- 


The  Great  Broxopp  265 

went  couldn't.    (Kissing  him.)   Does  he  object  to  kiss- 
ing, too? 

(They  are  interrupted  by   the  arrival  of  Sir 
Roger,  much  to  Broxopp' s  confusion.) 

Tenterden:  Ah,  Mrs.  Chillingham,  so  you're  back! 
Welcome  home! 

Nancy:    How  do  you  do,  Sir  Roger? 
Tcntcrdcn:     A  pleasant  visit,  I  hope? 

Nancy:  Very,  thank  you.  But  I'm  glad  to  be  home 
again. 

Tenterden:  With  so  beautiful  a  house,  who  would 
not? 

Broxopp:  Oh,  we're  very  comfortable  here,  aren't 
we,  Nancy? 

Nancy:  (Looking  round  it,  and  speaking  from  the 
heart.)  I  love  it!  ....  Have  you  had  tea,  Sir 
Roger  ? 

Tenterden:  Yes,  yes,  thank  you,  all  I  want.  Been 
busy  all  day,  Mrs.  Chilfingham.  A  great  nuisance, 
business,  on  a  day  like  this.  And  when  there  is  so 
much  that  is  attractive  all  around  one.  And  there's 
your  lucky  husband — no  cares  at  all — goes  off  fishing 
— By  the  way,  Chillingham,  what  luck? 

Broxopp:  (Carelessly.)  Oh,  about  the  usual  .  .  . 
Er — I  was — er — wanting  to  talk  to  you,  Sir  Roger, 
about — er 

Tenterden:  My  dear  friend,  by  all  means.  In  fact, 
I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  spare  me  a  few  moments.  I 
rather  want  your  advice. 

Nancy:  (Preparing  to  go.)  Well,  I  must  take  off 
my  things.  And  you  can  talk  business  together.  I 


266  The  Great  Broxopp 

expect  you  will  want  to  be  alone.    But  don't  keep  him 
too  long,  Sir  Roger,  because  I  want  him. 

(Tenterden  is  moving  politely  to  the  door  but 
Broxopp  does  not  move.) 

Broxopp:  (With  a  smile.}  You're  my  business 
partner,  Nancy,  I've  no  secrets  from  you.  If  you  donV 
mind,  Sir  Roger?  If  it's  just  a  question  of  a  lucky  in- 
vestment you  have  put  me  into — well,  my  wife  shares 
my  good  fortune  to-day,  just  as  she  shared  my  ill- 
fortune  in  the  days  gone  by. 

Tenterden:    It  is  just  as  Mrs.  Chillingham  wishes. 

Nancy:    You  can  always  tell  me  afterwards,  Jim. 

Broxopp:  Nonsense,  we  may  want  your  help.  (To 
Tenterden.*)  I  remember  once  putting  a  little  money 
into  a  mine  which  a  friend  had  spoken  well  of.  My 
wife  was  very  much  against  it—do  you  remember, 
Nancy?  She  said  that  it  would  be  much  safer  in  the 
bank.  Well,  she  was  quite  right. 

Nancy:  (Sitting  down  again.)  Of  course,  I  was. 
(With  a  smile  of  remembrance.}  But  do  you  remem- 
ber what  fun  we  had  watching  the  papers  to  see 
whether  it  went  up  or  down  ? 

Broxopp:    Yes  ...  it  went  down. 

Tenterden:    Ah,  what  mine  was  that? 

Broxopp:  Oh,  I  really  forget  now.  Some  Welsh 
gold-mine,  I  believe. 

Tenterden:  Yes,  I  think  I  could  have  given  you  a 
word  of  warning  about  Welsh  gold-mines,  Chilling- 
ham,  if  you  had  consulted  me. 

Broxopp:  This  was  long  before  we  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing  you,  Sir  Roger. 

Tenterden:    Ah,  a  pity,  a  pity! 

Nancy:  (  With  a  pleasant  smile. )  That's  why  we're 
so  glad  to  have  your  help  now.  I  should  never  have 


The  Great  Broxopp  267 

trusted  Jim  with  all  the  money  he  got  from  Broxopp's 
Beans. 

Tenter  den:  (Wincing  at  the  hated  word.)  All  the 
money  he — ah — retired  with.  Yes.  Well,  I  hope, 
Chillingham,  I  really  hope  that  we  shall  be  able  to  do 
something  for  you  before  very  long. 

Broxopp:  Well,  I  left  it  to  you,  Sir  Roger.  But 
naturally  I — er — like  to  know  how  things  are  going  on. 
How  are  those  Oil  Shares  ? 

Tenterden:  Oil!  Oil!  Ah,  yes.  Well,  we  have 
lost  a  little  there.  (With  a  charming  smile.)  You 
know  how  it  is,  Mrs.  Chillingham.  One  loses  a  little 
here,  and  picks  up  a  little  more  there  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have 
been  disappointed  over  that  oil.  Very  disappointed. 
However,  we  must  take  these  things  as  they  come. 

Nancy:  I  always  think  that  something  safe,  how- 
ever little  interest  it  pays,  is — is  safest. 

Tenterden:  Safer  than  losing  it,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Chillingham — all  women  will  agree  with  you  there — 
but  not  so  pleasant  as  winning  a  little  more.  Your 
husband  sold  his  business  at  an  unfortunate  time.  Our 
hand  was  forced;  we  had  to  sell;  we  had  to  take  the 
price  they  offered.  Possibly,  if  we  had  had  more  time 
to  look  round,  we  should  have  done  better,  but  there 
it  was.  Naturally,  then,  your  husband  felt  that  a  little 
speculation  before  investing — well,  I  call  it  a  specula- 
tion, but  as  I  could  tell  him  from  my  inside  knowledge, 
it  was  almost  a  certainty.  And  had  it  come  off,  it 
would  have  given  him  enough  for  that  safe  investment, 
with  small  interest  which  you  (with  a  bow  to  Mrs. 
Chillingham)  very  naturally  desire. 

Broxopp:    (Sharply.)    Had  it  come  off,  you  say? 
Tenterden:    Exactly.    As  you  know,  my  dear  Chill- 
ingham, one  loses  a  little  more  here  and  picks  up  a 


268  The  Great  Broxopp 

little  there.  In  the  end  one  finds  that  one  has  picked 
up  a  good  deal  more  than  one  has  lost.  If  one  knows 
the  ropes,  Mrs.  Chillingham.  That,  if  I  may  say  so, 
is  where  I  come  in;  and  very  much  at  your  service. 

Broxopp:  (Fiercely.)  How  much  of  my  money 
have  you  lost? 

Tenter  den:  (Gently.}  I  think,  Chillingham,  that 
that  is  hardly  the  way  to  put  it.  I  am  not — (With  a 
bow)  an  absconding  solicitor. 

Broxopp:  (Upset.)  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Roger. 
What  I  feel  is  that  if  it  is  a  question  of  losing  money 
by  speculation,  I  can  lose  it  quite  easily  by  myself.  I 
don't  want  any  help.  I  understood  that  I  could  rely 
upon  your  knowledge 

Tenterden:  (Beautifully.)  My  dear  Chillingham, 
of  course,  of  course.  You  are  quite  right.  I  will  let 
you  have  a  note  of  your  investments  this  evening. 
Naturally  you  will  wish  to  conduct  your  business  your- 
self in  the  future,  or  to  take  other  advice.  (With  a 
smile  to  Nancy.)  I  think  your  husband  is  quite  right, 
Mrs.  Chillingham.  Business  and  friendship  should 
not  be  mixed  up.  Although,  of  course,  if  one  hears  of 
a  good  thing,  one  does  like  putting  one's — ah — best 
pals  on  to  it.  It's  human  nature,  I  suppose. 

Nancy:  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  Jim  didn't  mean  to  sug- 
gest  

Tenterden:  (Smiling.)  That  I  was  a  knave?  No, 
hardly.  But  that  I  was  a  fool !  Eh,  Chillingham  ?  Oh, 
I  think  so.  I  think  so. 

Broxopp:  (Very  uncomfortably.)  Sir  Roger — you 
see — of  course  I  don't 

Tenterden:  (Holding  up  his  hand.)  Please,  please 
don't  say  any  more.  If  anything,  the  apology  should 
come  from  me.  I  have  lost  your  money.  (To  Nancy 


The  Great  Broxopp  269 

charmingly.)  Yes,  Mrs.  Chillingham,  a  good  deal  of 
it.  And  a  good  deal  of  my  own,  too.  Fortunately  I 
see  my  way  to  getting  my  own  back,  with  a  little  over. 
(Laughing  pleasantly.)  But  of  course  I  mustn't  tell 
your  husband  how.  Eh,  Chillingham  ?  He  has  washed 
his  hands  of  me.  Quite  right,  too.  I  should  never  for- 
give myself  if  I  mentioned  now  the  little  investment 
which  is  going  to  put  me  on  my  legs,  because  he  might 
be  tempted  to  come  into  it,  too,  and — (With  a  shrug.) 
After  all,  you  can  never  be  certain.  We  have  had  one 
disappointment  over  the  Oil;  we  might  have  another 
over — well,  shall  we  say  cocoanuts?  But  somehow 
(Smiling  to  himself .)  I  don't  think  that  we  shall  .  .  . 
But,  of  course,  one  can't  guarantee  it.  (Getting  up.) 
Well,  Mrs.  Chillingham,  then  that's  settled.  (He  gives 
her  a  pleasant  smile.)  Chillingham,  perhaps  you  could 
spare  me  half  an  hour  this  evening,  and  then  we  can  go 
into  these  matters.  Between  ourselves,  Mrs.  Chilling- 
ham,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  responsibility. 
(Looking  through  the  window.)  Beautiful  weather 
we're  having  just  now.  The  young  people  out  enjoying 
themselves,  I  suppose.  Golf,  what?  No  cares,  no 
responsibilities — lucky  young  people!  Well,  then,  this 
evening,  Chillingham. 

(Tenterden  gives  them  a  pleasant  nod  and  goes 
out.) 

Broxopp:  (Unhappy.)  Nancy,  I  wasn't  rude,  was 
I? 

Nancy:     (Her  thoughts  elsewhere.)     No,  dear,  no. 

Broxopp:  You  don't  think  Jack  will  think  I  was — 
ungrateful  and — and  ill-mannered? 

Nancy:  No,  dear,  you — After  all,  as  you  said,  why 
should  Sir  Roger  lose  the  money  which  you  have 
worked  so  hard  for? 


270  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  Exactly.  And  I  didn't  accuse  him  of  any- 
thing. I  only  said 

Nancy:  (Watching  him  carefully.')  The  money  on 
which  you  were  going  to  retire  so  happily. 

Broxopp:    Yes,  exactly. 

Nancy:  No  more  anxieties,  no  more  hard  work. 
Just  a  happy  quiet  life,  all  the  day  to  yourself,  doing 
whatever  you  liked. 

Broxopp:    (Less  heartily.')    Er — yes.    Yes. 

Nancy:    Fishing 

Broxopp:     (Doing  his  best.)     Yes. 

Nancy :    Gol  f 

Broxopp:  (Looking  at  her  and  looking  away 
again.)  Yes. 

Nancy:  Talking  to  Jack's  friends (Broxopp 

doesn't  exactly  say  anything)  enjoying  yourself  from 
morning  till  night. 

Broxopp:    (Eagerly.)    And  you,  too,  Nancy! 

Nancy:  Oh  yes,  I  enjoy  it.  (With  a  sigh.)  I  love 
it. 

Broxopp:  (Trying  to  be  enthusiastic.)  Of  course 
its  a  fine  place.  A  very  fine  place. 

Nancy:  Yes  .  .  .  All  the  same,  dear,  I  think  per- 
haps you  were  a  little — not  rude  exactly — abrupt  with 
Sir  Roger. 

Broxopp:    (Anxiously.)     Do  you  think  so? 

Nancy:    (Nodding.)    'M. 

Broxopp:  Ought  I  to  go  and — er — just  say  some- 
thing  

Nancy:  I  think  you'd  better  leave  it  to  me,  dear. 
(She  gives  him  her  purse-bag.)  Just  put  this  up  in 
my  room  for  me,  and  wait  for  me  in  the  rose-garden. 


The  Great  Broxopp  271 

Broxopp:  You're  going  to — say  something  to  him? 
(She  nods.)  You're  quite  right,  Nancy.  Perhaps  I 
was  a  little — I  don't  want  him  to  think — Well,  I'll  wait 
for  you  in  the  rose-garden. 

(As  Broxopp  goes  out  he  turns  at  the  door,  and 

Nancy  blows  a  kiss  to  him. 
Left  alone,  she  looks  round  her  hall,  sighs,  and 
goes  to  the  door  and  looks  out  at  her  garden, 
shakes  her  head  at  it,  and  comes  back  again. 
She  is  just  going  to  the  morning-room  ti'hcn 
— Sir  Roger  comes  in.) 

Tenterden:  Ah,  Mrs.  Chillingham.  I  think  I  left 
the  paper — Ah,  there  it  is! 

Nancy:    I  was  just  coming  to  see  you,  Sir  Roger. 
Tenterden:     (With  a  bow.)     Need  I  say  that  I  am 
always  at  your  service? 

Nancy:  (Indicating  a  chair.)  Do  sit  down,  won't 
you?  (She  sits  down  herself.) 

Tenterden:    (Sitting.)    Thank  you. 
Nancy:     Sir  Roger,  has  my  husband  lost  much  of 
his  money  ? 

Tenterden:  My  dear  Mrs.  Chillingham,  five  min- 
utes ago  I  should  not  have  used  the  word  "lost"  at  all. 
It  was  just,  if  I  may  put  it  so,  the  opening  skirmish  in 
a  campaign.  One  does  not  say  that  a  campaign  is  lost 
because  at  the  first  few  shots — (He  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders. ) 

Nancy:    Yes,  I  understand. 

Tenterden:     However,  now  that  I  am  no  longer 

responsible  for  the  campaign 

Nancy:     (Quietly.)     I  don't  want  you  to  say  that. 

Tenterden:    Well,  I  confess  that  I  should  be  very 

sorry  to  say  so,  particularly  just  at  this  moment  when  I 

see  my  way  to  something  really  big.     I  received  some 


272  The  Great  Broxopp 

information  yesterday — well,  it  is  as  I  was  telling  you 
just  now.  Cocoanuts,  I  called  it.  (With  a  smile.) 
No,  it  is  not  cocoanuts,  Mrs.  Chillingham.  Something 
better  than  cocoanuts.  A  Building  Society.  I  have 
the  option  of  a  very  large  block  of  shares — 

Nancy:  (With  a  start.}  A  Building  Society? 
Not  the  Excelsior? 

Tenterden:    Yes.    Why,  have  you  heard  about  it? 

Nancy:  (Looking  at  him  thoughtfully.)  A  friend 
of  mine  was  mentioning  it. 

Tenterden:  Well,  if  he's  wise,  he'll  go  in.  And  if 
I  were  still  advising  Mr.  Chillingham,  I  should  say  to 
him  "Go  in."  Go  right  in — as  a  speculation,  if  you 
like — the  price  will  go  up  and  up — or  better  still,  as  an 
investment.  There's  your  gilt-edged  investment,  Mrs. 
Chillingham.  Not  three  per  cent,  though ;  ten.  And 
safe.  Safe  as  (with  a  smile)  shall  I  say  houses? 

Nancy:    (To  herself.)    I  wonder.    It's  a  chance. 

Tenterden:  It's  more  than  a  chance.  It's  a  cer- 
tainty. My  experience  of  the  City,  my  knowledge  of 
these  undertakings,  tells  me  that  it's  a  certainty. 

Nancy:  (Absently.)  Yes,  I  didn't  mean  that  sort 
of  chance  .  .  .  (She  gets  up.)  Sir  Roger,  I  think  I 
can  persuade  my  husband.  I  agree  with  you  that  it's 
too  good  a  chance  to  be  missed.  And  (She  gives  him  a 
smile,  but  it  is  a  secret  joke  of  her  own.)  I  should  like 
to  say  that  I  have  absolute  confidence  in  you.  (She 
gives  him  her  hand. ) 

Tenterden:  (Kissing  it  gracefully.)  My  dear  lady, 
I  am  sure  that  your  husband  will  never  regret  it. 

Nancy:  (To  herself,  with  rather  a  wistful  smile,  as 
he  goes  to  the  door.)  Well,  that's  what  I'm  rather 
hoping. 


The  Great  Broxopp  273 

(She  looks  a  little  sadly  round  the  home  that  she 

has  come  to  love  so  much. 
Broxopp  comes  in.) 

Broxopp:    Oh,  you're  here ?    Have  you 

Nancy:    I've  spoken  to  him. 
Broxopp:    Is  it  all  right? 

Nancy :  ( Going  to  him  and  taking  his  arm. )   Every- 
thing is  going  to  be  quite  all  right,  dear. 

(They  go  into  the  garden  together.) 


ACT  IV 

Scene:  Broxopp  is  back  at  No.  26.  The  room  looks 
much  the  same  as  it  did  those  many  years  ago,  but 
it  has  been  improved  by  one  or  two  pieces  of  fur- 
niture saved  from  the  wreck. 
The  Broxopps  are  out,  and  Sir  Roger  Tenterden 
is  waiting  for  the  return  of  one  of  them.  He  is 
getting  impatient.  He  looks  at  his  watch  and  de- 
cides that  he  can  wait  no  longer.  He  picks  up  his 
hat  and  is  on  his  way  to  the  door,  when — Nancy 
comes  in  with  some  parcels  in  a  string  bag. 

Nancy:  (Taken  by  surprise.}  Oh,  how  you  startled 
me  ...  Why,  it's  Sir  Roger! 

Tenterden:    I  must  apologise 

Nancy:  (Smiling.}  So  must  I.  I've  been  shopping 
And  it's  the  maid's  afternoon  out. 

Tenterden:  (A  little  blankly.}  Oh — ah — yes.  They 
told  me  down  below  to  come  up  and — ah 

Nancy:  That's  right.  I  just  went  out  to  get  some 
kidneys. 

She  holds  up  a  parcel  and  Sir  Roger  shudders. 
I  haven't  bought  kidneys  for  I  don't  know  how  many 
years;  it  feels  quite  strange.  Do  come  and  sit  down. 
How's  Iris?  We  haven't  seen  her  lately.  (She  leads 
the  way  to  the  table  and  puts  the  bag  down  on  it. ) 

Tenterden :  Well,  it  was  really  about  Iris  that  I  ven- 
tured to  come  and  see  you  so  informally,  Mrs.  Chil- 
lingham.  I  happened  to  have  a  business  appointment 
just  across  the  road,  and — ah — 

274 


The  Great  Broxopp  275 

Nancy:    How  nice  of  you! 
Tenter  den:    Is  Iris  quite  well? 

Nancy:  Oh,  I  think  so.  Jack  seems  to  be  very  busy. 
We  have  a  note  from  him  every  now  and  then,  saying 
that  they  will  come  and  see  us  when  his  picture  is  fin- 
ished. 

Tentcrden:    Ah!     So  he's  painting.     Excellent. 

Nancy:  They've  a  studio  in  St.  John's  Wood.  But 
surely  Iris  must  have  told  you? 

Tenterden:  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Chillingham,  that 
Iris  has  not  condescended  to  communicate  with  me 
since — ah 

Nancy:    Since  we  lost  all  our  money. 

Tenterden:  Since  that  very  unfortunate  Excelsior 
business.  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  the  City 
is  coming  to  nowadays.  With  so  many  rogues  about, 
it  is  almost  impossible  for  a  gentleman  to  make  an 
honest  living.  However,  things  have  been  looking  up 
lately.  (Smiling  to  himself.)  Oh,  yes,  looking  up — 
decidedly.  But  then  I  knew  they  would.  I  only  wish, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Chillingham,  that  your  husband  could 
have  been  participating  in  my  good  fortune. 

Nancy:  (Smiling.)  Well,  we  had  no  money  left, 
you  see. 

Tenterden:  (Holding  up  a  hand.)  Don't  think  I 
am  blaming  your  husband.  Pray  don't  think  that.  I 
assure  you,  I  quite  understand.  And  so  Jack  is  paint- 
ing? Making  quite  a  good  living  by  it,  what?  You 
relieve  my  mind  considerably,  Mrs.  Chillingham.  I 
shall  go  away  happy  now.  I  shouldn't  have  liked  to 
think  that  my  daughter  was  uncomfortable.  What  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  born  with  such  a  gift!  Lucky  Jack! 
And  Mr.  Chillingham,  I  trust,  quite  well  ? 


276  The  Great  Broxopp 

Nancy:  Very  well  indeed,  thank  you.  He  hasn't 
looked  so  well  for  a  long  time. 

Tenter  den:  Excellent,  excellent.  And  making  his 
fortune  again,  I've  no  doubt.  I'm  delighted  to  hear  it. 
Well,  Mrs.  Chillingham,  I  must  be  getting  on.  I  am 
most  relieved  to  hear  your  good  news.  Remember  me 
to  your  husband,  please,  and  tell  him  that  if,  at  any 
time,  he  wants  a  good  investment,  I  shall  only  be  too 
delighted  to  be  of  any  service.  (Holding  up  his  hand.} 
No,  don't  thank  me.  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to.  It 
would  be  a  privilege.  (He  shakes  her  warmly  by  the 
hand.)  Good-bye,  good-bye. 

(He  goes  out,  magnificently. 

As  soon  as  she  has  recovered,  Nancy  takes  off 
her  hat  and  goes  to  the  table  to  work.  Seeing 
the  string  bag  there,  she  takes  both  it  and  the 
hat  out  of  the  room,  and  comes  back  again. 
Then  she  settles  down  at  the  table  to  it.  She 
is  drawing  an  advertisement  for  Broxopp,  as 
we  can  see  by  the  way  she  bites  her  pencil  and 
frowns  to  herself. 

'A  cheerful  voice,  singing  a  song  without  words, 
is  heard  outside,  and  The  Great  One  Comes 
In.  He  is  wearing  the  old  sombrero — the 
Broxopp  hat — and  (a  novelty  this)  a  pale 
grey  tail  coat  and  trousers.  He  carries  two 
or  three  parcels  in  his  hand.) 

Broxopp :    Nancy ! 

Nancy:    (Jumping up.)    Jim! 

Broxopp:  My  darling!  Just  wait  a  moment  till  I 
put  down  these  parcels.  (He  puts  them  down  on  the 
table.)  Now  then!  (He  holds  out  his  arms  and  she 
comes  to  him.  After  he  has  kissed  her,  he  says  solemn- 
ly.) I've  thanked  Heaven  every  day  since  we've  been 


The  Great  Broxopp  277 

here  that  I  can  kiss  you  now  without  being  observed  by 
butlers.  Another  one! 

(He  kisses  her  again  and  then  holds  her  at  arms' 

length.) 
All  right? 

Nancy:    Of  course  I  am. 

Broxopp:  (Taking  off  his  hat.)  I  met  Sir  Roger 
just  outside. 

Nancy:    Did  you  speak  to  him? 

Broxopp:  I  said  "Hallo!"  and  he  said  "Ah,  Chil- 
lingham,  Chillingham !"  Has  he  been  here? 

Nancy:  Just  to  ask  after  Iris,  and  (smiling)  to  say 
how  glad  he  was  that  you  were  making  your  fortune 
again. 

Broxopp:  Did  you  tell  him  that  I  was  making  my 
fortune  again? 

Nancy:    He  told  himself.    I  didn't  say  anything 
Broxopp:    Well,  you  might  have,  Nancy.     Because 
it's  true.     I'm  going  to. 

Nancy:  I'm  sure  you  are,  dear  .  .  .  Say  you  don't 
feel  bitter  against  Sir  Roger. 

Broxopp:  Bitter?  Nancy,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I'm 
glad  he  has  lost  my  money. 

(Nancy  nods  to  herself.) 

There!  There  are  not  many  people  who  would  say 
that,  but  then  I'm  not  like  other  people.  I  have  my  own 
way  of  looking  at  things  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  have 
you  been  doing? 

Nancy:  Shopping.  And — (looking  rather  sadly  at 
her  drawing.) — and  Ajax. 

Broxopp:    Ajax? 

Nancy:    Ajax  defying  the  lightning. 


278  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:  (Pleased.)  Ah,  that  was  a  good  idea, 
wasn't  it,  Nancy?  (Declaiming.)  "Ajax  defied  the 
lightning.  Why?  Because  he  knew  that  he  was  in- 
sured against  fire  with  the  West  End  Insurance  Com- 
pany." (Going  over  to  her  work.)  Have  you  been 
doing  that  for  me? 

Nancy:  Yes,  darling,  but  I  can't  get  Ajax  properly. 
He  doesn't  look  as  though  he's  defying  anything. 

Broxopp:  (Looking  at  Ajax.)  No,  he  doesn't, 
does  he?  Yet  what  a  touch  you  had  with  suspenders 
in  the  old  days. 

Nancy:  (Sadly.)  I  think  suspenders  must  be  easier 
than  Ajaxes,  unless  perhaps  it's  because  I'm  getting  old. 

Broxopp:  (Indignantly.)  Old?  You  get  younger 
every  day.  (Picking  up  one  of  his  parcels.)  In  fact, 
you're  such  a  baby  that  I  had  to  buy  these  for  you  this 
afternoon.  (He  hands  her  a  box  of  chocolates  with 
a  bow.) 

Nancy:  Oh,  Jim,  darling,  you  shouldn't  waste  your 
money  on  me.  You  must  remember  what  a  little  we 
have  now. 

Broxopp :  The  less  money  we  have,  the  more  reason 
for  spending  it  so  as  to  produce  the  greatest  amount 
of  happiness.  It  gave  the  shopman  great  pleasure  to 
sell  these  chocolates  to  me,  it  gave  me  great  pleasure 
to  buy  them  for  you,  it's  going  to  give  you  great  pleas- 
ure to  eat  them.  Was  ever  half-a-crown  more  nobly 
spent  ? 

Nancy :    Hal  f-a-crown  ? 

Broxopp:    (Airily.)    Two  and  sixpence. 

Nancy:  Of  course,  in  a  way,  it's  fun  beginning  all 
over  again 

Broxopp:  Fun!  It's  Life!  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
a  man  called  Stevenson  ?  He  invented  the  first  steam 


The  Great  Broxopp  279 

engine.  He  agrees  with  me  about  this.  He  said  "To 
travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive."  Of 
course,  he  was  thinking  of  his  railways.  But  it's  true. 
Going  there  is  better  fun  than  getting  there.  We  got 
there  once,  Nancy,  and  now  we  are  going  there  again. 

Nancy:    But  we're  twenty-five  years  older. 

Broxopp:  And  twenty -five  years  wiser,  and  twenty- 
five  years  more  in  love  with  each  other.  That  makes  a 
difference. 

Nancy:    Yes,  but  what  I'm  rather  afraid  of  is  that 

we've  had — well,  fifteen  years  of  spending  money,  and 

—(She  opens  the  box  and  looks  at  it  doubtfully.) — 

Well,  I  may  as  well  see  what  they're  like.     (She  nibbles 

one.}     They  are  lovely.     (She  puts  it  in  her  mouth.} 

Broxopp:  You  needn't  be  afraid.  We're  going  to 
have  money  to  spend.  But  we'll  have  the  fun  erf  mak- 
ing it  first.  (With  an  air.)  Madam,  you  see  before 
you  the  Great  Chillingham.  (A  little  hurt.)  You 
don't  say  anything. 

(She  taps  her  mouth  to  indicate  that  she  is  too 

busy. ) 

Ah,  I  see.  But  perhaps  it  is  as  well.  The  Great  Chil- 
lingham is  not  yet  before  you.  I  spoke  too  soon.  (He 
begins  to  undo  the  other  forcels.) 

Nancy:    (Now  articulate.')    Yes,  darling? 

Broxopp:  Wait!  (He  opens  the  parcels — a  Chil- 
lingham grey  bowler  hat  and  a  Chillingham  pink  tie  are 
disclosed. )  Permit  me,  Madam,  to  introduce  to  you  the 
Chillingham  hat  and  the  Chillingham  tie! 

Nancy :    (Lovingly. )    My  Broxopp  baby ! 

Broxopp:  (A  little  hurt.)  This  is  not  babyness,  it's 
business.  I  called  on  the  Aquavim  people  today — the 
Brain  Tonic  for  Tired  Workers.  I  announced  that  I 
..as  \villing  to  undertake  the  entire  management  and  re- 


280  The  Great  Broxopp 

construction  of  their  business  for  them.  They  declined. 
I  then  said  that,  temporarily  and  until  greater  oppor- 
tunities offered,  I  might  be  induced  to  advertise  their 
poison  for  them.  They  replied  that  they  no  longer 
wrote  their  own  advertisements ;  they  were  written  for 
them  by  eminent  authors,  actors,  painters,  soldiers  and 
statesmen,  in  exchange  for  a  few  bottles  and  the  pub- 
licity which  it  brought  them.  I  said  modestly  that,  if 
it  came  to  that,  I  myself  was  at  one  time  not  unknown 
in  the  world  of  commerce.  The  manager  looked  at  my 
card  again  and  regretted  that  he  could  not  seem  to  re- 
call the  name  of  Chillingham.  That  opened  my  eyes, 
Nancy,  and  I  decided  that  all  the  world  should  know— 
(Putting  on  the  bowler  hat  and  striking  am  attitude.) 
The  Great  Chillingham !  But  you'll  see  it  better  direct- 
ly, when  I've  got  the  tie  on. 

Nancy:  (Going  to  him.)  Say  you  don't  regret 
Broxopp  very  much. 

Broxopp:  Does  an  artist  regret  selling  a  picture 
after  he  has  painted  it  ?  I  made  the  name  of  Broxopp 
and  when  I  had  made  it,  I  sold  it.  Now  I'm  going  to 
make  the  name  of  Chillingham.  I  can  make  any  name 
— with  you  helping  me,  Nancy. 

Nancy:  Of  course  you  can.  (Timidly.)  Have  you 
decided  what  we  shall  make  the  name  of  Chillingham 
famous  about? 

Broxopp:  That's  the  beauty  of  it.  I  got  so  deep 
into  that  groove  of  Beans  for  Babies  that  I  thought 
of  nothing  else  for  twenty-five  years.  Now  we  have 
the  whole  world  to  choose  from.  Don't  let  us  be  in  a 
hurry.  (Taking  off  his  hat  and  regarding  it.)  I  think 
the  new  hat  is  striking,  don't  you?  But  keep  the  old 
one,  Nancy?  When  the  story  of  my  life  comes  to  be 
written,  the  author  may  wish  to  sec  it  personally.  Well, 


The  Great  Broxopp  281 

I'll  go  and  put  the  tie  on  ...  But  I  was  forgetting. 
Who  do  you  think  I  saw  today? 

Nancy :    ( Eagerly. )    Not  Jack  ? 
Broxopp :    Jack. 

Nancy:  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  How  is  he? 
How  is  he  looking? 

Broxopp:  You'll  see  for  yourself  directly.  He  and 
Iris  are  coming  round  this  afternoon. 

Nancy:  How  nice.  Then  I  suppose  his  picture  is 
finished.  How  is  Iris  ? 

Broxopp:  He  didn't  tell  me  anything,  except  that 
he  was  coming.  We  were  both  of  us  in  a  hurry.  Well, 
I'll  go  and  put  on  this  tie.  On  this  day  The  Great 
Chillingham  was  born. 

(Broxopp  goes  out. 

Nancy  returns  to  Ajax,  but  she  has  hardly  be- 
gun to  do  anything  to  it,  when  there  is  a 
gentle  tap  at  the  door.) 
Nancy:    Come  in. 

7m:    (Her  head  round  the  door.)   May  I  come  in? 
Nancy:    Oh,  Iris !    And  I'm  not  dressed  or  anything. 

7m:  Well,  I'm  not  very  grand  myself.  (Kissing 
her.)  You  look  as  young  as  ever,  Nancy.  Is  Jack 
here? 

Nancy:    No.  He's  coming,  isn't  he? 

7m:  He  was  going  to  meet  me  here.  (Looking 
round  the  room  she  says  sadly)  Oh,  Nancy! 

Nancy:    Why  "Oh,  Nancy?" 

7m:  To  see  you  in  this  room — after  what  you're 
accustomed  to. 

Nancy:  (Smiling.)  But  I'm  accustomed  to  this. 
This  is  where  we  lived  before  Jack  was  born. 


282  The  Great  Broxopp 

7m:  I  know.  And  now  Jack  and  I  have  brought 
you  back  to  it  ...  Do  you  forgive  me? 

Nancy:    I  shan't  if  you  talk  so  foolishly. 

7m:  You'll  never  forgive  Father,  of  course. 
Neither  shall  I.  I  told  him  so. 

Nancy:  Yes,  I'm  not  sure  that  you  ought  to  have 
.  .  .  You  see,  it  was  just  as  much  my  doing  as  your 
father's. 

7m:    (Surprised)    Yours? 

Nancy:  (Nodding.)  Yes.  You  see,  Jim  wasn't 
happy  at  the  Manor  House.  I  thought  at  first  that  he 
might  manage  to  be,  but  he  wasn't.  He's  the  sort  of 
man  who  must  always  be  working.  And  so  I  thought 
that  if  we  lost  all  our  money  and  had  to  start  work 
again,  there  was  just  a  chance  of  his  being  happy  again. 
So  I — (a  little  embarrassed.)  I'm  afraid  I  encouraged 
your  father  rather. 

7m:  I  don't  think  Father  wants  much  encourage- 
ment at  losing  other  people's  money. 

Nancy:  Well,  I  didn't  stop  him  when  I  knew  he  was 
being  silly,  and  I  wouldn't  let  Jim  stop  him,  and — and 
well,  here  we  are,  dear,  and  Jim  is  as  happy  as  can  be. 

7m:    And  is  Nancy? 

Nancy:  (A  little  sadly.)  Well,  of  course,  I  did 
love  the  Manor  House,  Iris.  (With  a  sudden  smile.) 
But  this  is  fun,  you  know.  It's  like  a  second  honey- 
moon. 

Iris:  Oh,  Nancy!  .  .  .  And  how  is  Daddy 
Broxopp? 

Nancy:    (With  a  loving  smile.}    Enjoying  himself 
so  much.    Oh,  we  shall  be  all  right.     He'll  get  hold  of 
some  wonderful  idea  soon.     (Getting  up.}     Come  and 
take  off  your  hat.    You  mustn't  be  a  visitor. 
(There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.) 


The  Great  Broxopp  283 

There!    That's  Jack! 
(Enter  Jack.) 

Jack:     (Announcing  himself.)     The  Return  of  the 
Prodigal. 

Nancy:    Oh,  Jack,  how  nice  to  see  you  again,  dear. 
Jack:    (Kissing  her.)    How  are  you,  darling?   You 
look  remarkably  blooming.     ( Shaking  hands  with  Iris. ) 
How  do  you  do,  Madam? 
Iris:    How  do  you  do,  sir? 

Nancy:     Iris  is  just  coming  into  my  room.     We 
won't  be  long. 

Jack:     Right.     Where's  Dad? 
Nancy:    He'll  be  here  in  a  moment. 
Jack:    Good  man.     (He  opens  the  door  for  them. 
To  Iris.)  You  haven't  broken  the  bad  news  yet? 
Iris:    No. 

Nancy:    Jack!    There's  nothing ? 

7m:.    (Smiling.)     It's  all  right,  dear.     It's  only  a 
little  discovery  we've  made 

Nancy:    There  are  plenty  of  discoveries  to  be  made 
when  you  are  poor. 

(Nancy  and  Iris  go  out  together. 

Jack  wanders  round  the  room  and  comes  to 

the  unfinished  Ajax  on  the  table.) 
Jack:    (Catching  sight  of  it.)    Good  heavens,  who's 
this?     (Looking  at  it  carefully.)     It  can't  be  anybody 
at  the  Club. 

(Enter  Broxopp  with  a  terrific  air  as  the  Great 
Chillingham.  He  pulls  up  at  seeing  only 
Jack.) 

Broxopp:    Hallo,  boy.    So  you've  come. 
Jack:    Hallo,  Dad. 
Broxopp:    Iris  here? 


284  The  Great  Broxopp 

Jack:    Yes,  she's  in  with  mother. 

Broxopp:  How  are  you  getting  on?  We  haven't 
seen  much  of  you  lately. 

Jack:  Well,  we've  all  been  working  so  hard.  (Go- 
ing up  to  him.)  You're  looking  extraordinary  bright, 
Dad.  (He  puts  an  arm  affectionately  round  his  father's 
shoulder  and  fingers  the  Chillingham  tie.)  Who's  your 
lady  friend  ? 

Broxopp:  (With  dignity.)  Have  you  never  heard 
of  the  Chillingham  tie,  boy? 

Jack:    Never.    Is  that  it? 

Broxopp:  It  is.  (Simply.)  It  will  be  heard  of  one 
day. 

Jack:  I'm  sure  it  will.  I  can  almost  hear  it  now. 
(Patting  him  affectionately. )  Dear  old  Dad — I've  been 
a  rotten  son  to  you,  haven't  I  ? 

Broxopp:  (Considering  it  fairly.)  No,  I  won't  say 
that,  Jack.  You  were  a  very  good  son  to  me  when 
you  were  a  baby.  You  did  a  lot  for  the  Broxopp  bus- 
iness, and  I  used  to  like  telling  people  in  the  City  all 
the  funny  little  things  you  said.  Besides,  you  made 
your  mother  very  happy.  And  then  when  you  were 
growing  up  I  used  to  enjoy  talking  about  my  boy  at 
Eton  and  my  boy  at  Oxford.  One  way  and  another 
I've  got  a  good  deal  of  happiness  out  of  you. 

Jack:  And  then,  when  I  was  grown  up,  you  sud- 
denly found  that  I  was  a  selfish  beast. 

Broxopp:  You  can't  expect  Father  and  Son  to  see 
things  the  same  way.  One  or  the  other  has  got  to  be 
selfish.  It's  generally  the  father. 

Jack:  Well,  in  this  case  it  was  the  son.  And  I've 
made  a  pretty  good  hash  of  things,  haven't  I  ?  To  think 
that  just  because  of  me,  you  and  Mother  are  living  in 
this  shabby  little  place  when  you  might  be — 


The  Great  Broxopp  285 

Broxopp:     (In  alarm.)     Don't  say  fishing! 
Jack:     Well,  let's  say  living  in  comfort. 

Broxopp:  You  may  say  I  might  have  been  living  in 
comfort.  That's  where  you're  wrong.  I  might  have 
been  existing  in  comfort ;  I  shouldn't  have  been  living. 
You  needn't  reproach  yourself  at  all.  I  gave  up  the 
business  for  you.  Yes.  But  I  hadn't  been  really  happy 
there  for  some  time.  It  was  getting  too  easy.  You  see, 
I  like  fighting.  So  does  your  mother  .  .  .  She  is  a 
great  help  to  me,  Jack.  Stick  to  your  wife  whatever 
happens,  my  boy.  (Sententiously.)  A  good  woman 
is  like 

Jack:  (Wickedly.)  Is  this  from  Broxoppiana  or 
Chillinghamiana? 

Broxopp:  (Plaintively.}  That's  the  worst  of  hav- 
ing a  grown-up  son ;  he  lets  you  know  when  he  finds  you 
out.  A  wife  never  does  .  .  .  Well,  and  how's  the 
picture  ?  Finished  ? 

Jack:  Wait  till  Iris  comes  in.  We've  decided  to 
tell  you  our  sad  story  hand  in  hand.  Besides,  while 
we've  got  the  chance,  Dad,  there's  something  I  want 
you  to  tell  me. 

Broxopp:    Well,  what  is  it? 

Jack:  Well,  then — as  man  to  man — how  are  you 
getting  on  ? 

Broxopp:  As  man  to  man,  Jack,  I  am  really  happy 
again. 

Jack:  Yes,  I  know,  but  I  didn't  ask  if  you  were 
happy.  I  asked  you  how  you  were  getting  on. 

Broxopp:  This  is  the  life  I  like,  my  boy.  It's  harder 
than  it  was  when  I  first  began,  but  I  made  good  once 
and  I  can  do  it  again.  (Thumping  tlie  table.)  I  like 
doing  it. 


286  The  Great  Broxopp 

Jack:  Yes,  but  you  still  haven't  told  me  how  you 
are  getting  on. 

Broxopp:  Don't  you  worry  about  me.  I'll  make  my 
fortune  again  long  before  you  make  yours  with  paint- 
ing. 

Jack:  Yes,  you  might  well  do  that.  (After  a  pause.} 
Look  here,  you  gave  me  £350  a  year  out  of  the  wreck. 
What  did  you  keep  for  yourself  and  Mother? 

Broxopp:  Really,  Jack,  I  refuse  to  be  cross-exam- 
ined like  this. 

Jack:  It's  no  good  refusing,  because  I  shall  simply 
ask  Mother. 

Broxopp:    (Smiling  to  himself.)  All  right,  ask  her. 

Jack:  (Looking  at  him  with  sudden  suspicion.) 
You  wicked  old  villain,  you've  been  deceiving  her,  too. 
(Sternly.)  Did  you  leave  anything  for  yourself  at  all  ? 

Broxopp:  Of  course  I  did.  Look  here,  boy,  it  may 
be  difficult  for  you  to  believe,  but  there  was  a  time 
when  your  father's  name  was  in  everybody's  mouth. 

Jack:  His  beans  were,  anyway.  But  for  Heaven's 
sake  don't  rub  it  in  that  I  made  you  change  your  name, 
and  lost  your  business  for  you.  I  know  all  that;  I'm 
here  to  apologise. 

Broxopp:  I'm  not  referring  to  that  at  all.  All  I 
want  you  to  understand  is  that  if  I  made  a  name  and  a 
fortune  before,  I  can  do  it  again.  That's  the  sort  of 
man  I  am.  It's  quite  different  with  you.  You  never 
had  any  education.  I  started  learning  at  eight  years 
old;  you  didn't  start  till  you  were  twenty-five.  It's 
hard  luck  on  you  having  only  £350  a  year  now,  but 
perhaps  you'll  be  able  to  do  something  with  your  paint- 
ing before  long.  Only  don't  worry  about  me. 

Jack:   Dad,  you're  a  gentleman,  you  really  are.  Then 


The  Great  Broxopp  287 

you've  forgiven  my  blessed  father-in-law  for  playing 
the  fool  with  your  money? 

Broxopp:  That  is  not  the  way  to  speak  of  Sir  Roger. 
Sir  Roger  Tenterden  does  not  "play  the  fool"  with 
money.  With  the  utmost  courtesy  he  condescends  to 
lose  it  for  you. 

Jack:  Yes,  but  all  the  same,  I  think  you  ought  to 
have  taken  a  hand  when  you  saw  how  things  were 
going. 

Broxopp:  (Looking  mysteriously  round  the  room,  to 
see  that  they  are  alone. )  Jack,  never  let  anybody  know, 
but  it  was  really  your  mother's  doing.  I  think  she  was 
a  little  afraid  of  Sir  Roger,  a  little  over-awed  by  him. 
There  were  many  occasions  when  I  was  on  the  point  of 
interfering,  but  your  mother  always  seemed  quite  satis- 
fied with  the  way  things  were  going.  She  seemed  to 
trust  Sir  Roger,  and — well,  I  gave  way  to  her.  For 
once  her  judgment  was  wrong.  But  of  course  I  let  her 
think  that  I  alone  am  responsible. 

Jack:    I  see    .  .  .But  you're  quite  happy  now? 

Broxopp:    Happy?    My  boy,  it's  life ! 

Jack:    Happier  than  you  were  at  the  Manor  House? 

Broxopp:    A  hundred  times! 

Jack:  Yes.  (He  rises  and  says  solemnly.}  Dad,  I 
promise  never  to  let  mother  know  that  she  is  responsible 
for  this. 

Broxopp:  (Taking  it  quite  seriously.)  That's  right, 
my  boy. 

Jack:     (Laughing.)      Oh,    Dad,    you're    priceless. 
(More  gravely.)     So  is  mother  .  .  . 
(Nancy  and  Iris  come  in.) 

Iris:    Hullo,  Daddy  Broxopp. 

Broxopp:  (Kissing  her.)  Hullo,  my  girl.  You 
haven't  called  me  that  for  a  long  time. 


288  The  Great  Broxopp 

Iris:  I  know.  Let's  try  and  forget  that.  Are  you 
going  to  forgive  me  ?  She  has. 

Broxopp:    Forgive  you  for  what? 

Iris:  Well,  for  not  having  been  an  orphan — for  one 
thing. 

Nancy:  (Shaking  her  head  at  her  with  a  smile.) 
Iris! 

7m:  And  for  putting  a  lot  of  nonsense  into  Jack's 
head,  and  making  an  utter  mess  of  things. 

Jack:  My  dear  girl,  any  nonsense  in  my  head  came 
there  of  itself,  it  wasn't  put  in  by  you. 

Iris:  Well,  there  it  was,  anyhow.  The  fact  is, 
Daddy  Broxopp,  we've  made  a  discovery  in  the  last  few 
months. 

Broxopp:    Hallo,  what's  that? 

7m:  Well,  it's  rather  important.  Are  you  ready, 
Jack  ?  (  Taking  Jack's  hand. )  We  have  discovered 

Jack:    Once,  finally  and  for  all 

7m:     That  Jack  Chillingham 

Jack:    Ne  Broxopp 

7m:    Cannot  paint. 

Jack:    He  cannot  paint. 

Jack  and  Iris  Together:    He  cannot  cannot  paint. 

Nancy:    Oh,  Jack,  what  a  disappointment  for  you. 

Broxopp :    How  did  you  discover  it,  boy  ? 

Jack:  By  regarding  my  latest  masterpiece  in  a  dis- 
passionate light.  You  ought  to  have  seen  it,  Dad.  It 
was  called  "The  First  Meeting  of  Henry  V.  with 
Katherine  of  France." 

Iris:    I  sat  for  Katherine. 

Jack:  She  also  stood  for  Henry  V.  I  wish  you  had 
seen  her  as  Henry  V ;  it  would  have  been  a  surprise  for 
you. 


The  Great  Broxopp  289 

Iris:    I  was  jolly  good. 

Jack:  It  was  going  to  be  my  Academy  picture.  That 
was  why  I  chose  that  subject.  It  was  the  stodgiest  sub- 
ject I  could  think  of.  Unfortunately,  when  I  had  fin- 
ished it,  I  regarded  it  in  a  dispassionate  light  and — 
(frankly.)  it  was  rotten. 

Iris:    Very  rotten. 

Jack:    Very,  very  rotten. 

Nancy:  Oh,  poor  Jack !  I  understand  how  you  must 
have  felt. 

Jack:    Well  then,  we  put  our  heads  together. 

7m:    (Leaning  her  head  against  his.)    Like  this. 

Jack:  And  decided  that  we  were  taking  your  money 
under  false  pretences. 

Iris:    Because  you  see  he  cannot  paint. 

Jack:    He  cannot  pafnt. 

Jack  and  Iris  Together:    He  cannot  cannot  paint. 

Broxopp:    Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  then? 

Iris:  (Surprised.)  Give  you  back  your  money,  of 
course. 

Broxopp:  Don't  be  silly.  I  didn't  mean  that.  What 
work  are  you  going  to  do? 

Jack:  (Wandering  round  the  room.)  Well,  that's 
rather  the  question.  Iris  thought — (He  stops  suddenly 
at  the  sight  of  his  mother's  drawing. )  Oh  Lord,  here's 
this  again.  What  on  earth ? 

Broxopp:  (Off-handedly.)  Just  a  rough  sketch  for 
an  advertisement — a  little  idea  of  mine — Ajax  defying 
the  lightning — Your  mother  was — Well  then,  Jack, 
you 

Jack:  (Looking  up  at  his  mother  reproachfully.) 
Mother,  darling ! 

Nancy:    Oh,  Jack,  A j axes  are  so  hard. 


290  The  Great  Broxopp 

Jack:  (Sitting  down  and  picking  up  the  pencil.) 
Oh,  but — Iris,  you'll  have  to  stand  for  Ajax.  Imagine 
Dad's  the  lightning  and  defy  him  like  the  dickens.  (Be- 
gining  to  drazv.)  Right  foot  out  a  bit  more.  Hands 
behind  the  back,  I  think.  Keep  the  head  well  up — as 
though  you  thought  nothing  of  him. 

Iris:  Daddy  Broxopp,  I  defy  you.  (She-  gives  a 
hurried  glance  at  Jack  to  make  sure  he  is  not  looking, 
blows  a  hasty  kiss  to  Broxopp,  and  hastily  resumes  her 
defiant  attitude.  Nancy  is  looking  over  Jack's  shoul- 
der.) 

Jack:  (Drawing.)  You'd  find  yourself  much  safer 
with  a  model,  Mother,  even  for  a  rough  sketch.  You 
get  so  much  more  life  into  it. 

Nancy:    Oh,  Jack,  I  wish  I  could  draw  like  that. 

Iris:    He  isn't  bad,  is  he? 

Jack:    (Still  at  it.)    Keep  your  head  up  .  .  .  I  can't 
draw — but  when  I  say  I  can't  draw,  I  don't  mean  the 
same  as  when  I  say  I  can't  paint.    You  see — Listen ! 
(A  loud  knocking  is  heard  at  the  outer  door.) 

Iris:  (Nodding  her  head  at  Broxopp.)  That's  you, 
Daddy  Broxopp.  You  did  the  lightning  so  well  that 
you've  brought  on  the  thunder. 

Nancy:    Oh,  I'd  better  go.     The  maid's  out. 

Jack:  (Getting  up.)  No,  you  don't;  I'll  go.  It's 
Dad's  lady  friend — I'll  bet  you  what  you  like — come  to 
see  his  tie.  Perhaps  I  can  buy  her  off  on  the  mat. 

Nancy:    (Shaking  her  head  at  him.)     Jack! 
(Jack  goes  out.) 

Iris:  (Relaxing.)  Well,  I  suppose  he  won't  want 
Ajax  any  more.  (She  goes  over  to  look  at  the  sketch.) 
Doesn't  he  draw  nicely?  (To  Broxopp.)  That  squig- 
gly bit  is  you.  (Looking  from  one  to  the  other.)  No, 
I  shouldn't  recognise  you. 


The  Great  Broxopp  291 

Broxopp:  (Picking  up  the  sketch.)  Yes,  that's  the 
way  to  draw.  (To  Nancy.)  All  the  same,  darling,  I 
shall  never  forget  the  way  you  drew  those  suspenders  in 

the  old  days.    There  was  something  about  them 

(Jack  and  Miss  Johns  come  in.) 

Jack :  (Protesting  as  he  comes  in. )  Oh,  but  I  assure 
you  I  remember  you  perfectly.  Mother,  this  is  Miss 
Johns.  You  remember  her,  don't  you  ?  She  was — er — 
in  the  old  days — don't  you  remember ? 

Nancy:  (Holding  out  her  hand.)  How  do  you  do, 
Miss  Johns  ?  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  come  and  see  us 
now.  (Hopefully  to  Broxopp.)  Jim,  you  remember 
Miss  Johns  ? 

Broxopp:  (The  only  one  who  does,  and  he  can't 
place  her  for  the  moment.)  Delighted  to  see  you  again, 
Miss  Johns.  Of  course,  I  remember  you  perfectly. 
(He  looks  at  her  with  a  puzzled  expression.) 

Miss  Johns:  It's  very  good  of  you  to  remember  me, 
Mr.  Broxopp — I  mean  Chillingham.  I  can  hardly  ex- 
pect you  to.  I  only  just  came  because  I'm  your  neigh- 
bour, and — (looking  round  her  awkwardly.) — but 
perhaps  you'd  rather  I 

Broxopp:  Oh,  not  at  all.  You  know  Jack's  wife, 
don't  you?  (They  bow  to  each  other.)  Sit  down  and 
tell  us  what  you  have  been  doing  lately. 

(She  sits  down.  Jack  wanders  back  to  his 
sketch  and  Iris  goes  with  him,  looking  over 
his  shoulder  as  he  touches  it  up.) 

Miss  Johns:  You  know,  I  don't  believe  you  do  re- 
member me,  Mr.  Broxopp — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  mean 
Mr.  Chillingham. 

Broxopp:  (Grimly.)  I  don't,  but  I'm  going  to. 
(He  looks  at  her  with  a  frown.) 

Nancy:     (Kindly,  as  Miss  Johns  is  obviously  get- 


292  The  Great  Broxopp 

ting  uncomfortable  under  Broxopp' s  gaze.)  Darling 
one 

Broxopp:  Wait!  (Thumping  his  hand  with  his 
fist.)  I've  got  it!  (Pointing  to  her.)  You  inter- 
viewed me  on  that  day — of  course,  I  remember  you 
now. 

Miss  Johns:  Oh,  Mr.  Brox — Oh,  how  wonderful 
of  you  to  remember  when  you  must  have  been  inter- 
viewed so  often. 

Broxopp:  Yes,  but  you  were  the  last  person  to  inter- 
view the  Great  Broxopp.  You  heard  that  I  had 
changed  my  name  ? 

Miss  Johns:  Oh,  I  was  so  sorry!  I  heard  about  it 
all,  and  how  you 

Broxopp:  Oh  well,  you  mustn't  pity  us  too  much. 
We're  quite  happy  here,  aren't  we,  Nancy  ? 

Nancy:    This  is  where  we  began,  you  know. 

Broxopp:  Why  of  course  she  knows.  I  remember 
your  saying  that  you  lived  on  the  floor  below.  And 
are  you  still  on  the  same  paper  ? 

Miss  Johns:  Yes,  but — er — (She  is  obviously  un- 
comfortable. ) 

Broxopp:'  But  they  don't  want  an  interview  with 
The  Great  Chillingham.  (With  utter  confidence.) 
They  will,  Miss  Johns,  they  will. 

Miss  Johns:  (Enthusiastically.)  Oh,  I'm  sure 
they  will. 

Broxopp:     (Suddenly.)     How's  your  brother? 

Miss  Johns:  (Very  nwich  flattered.)  Oh,  do  you 
remember  him?  How  wonderful  you  are! 

Broxopp:  (Struggling  zt»th  his  memories.)  Yes — 
I  remember — I — (He  stands  up  triumphant.)  I've 
got  it!  Chillingham's  Cheese  for  Chickens! 


The  Great  Broxopp  293 

Jack:    Hullo!    Dad's  off. 
Iris:    Go  it,  Daddy  Broxopp. 
Nancy:    S'sh,  dear. 

Broxopp:  That  Chicken  Food — it's  not  on  the  mar- 
ket yet? 

Miss  Johns:    No.    Oh,  do  you  really  think 

Broxopp:  Your  brother  still  believes  in  it?  Well, 
that  doesn't  matter.  He'll  believe  in  it  when  /  take  it 
up.  Can  you  get  your  brother  up  to  London? 

Miss  Johns:     (Overwhelmed.}     Yes,  I  think 

Broxopp:  (Overwhelming  her  still  more  complete- 
ly.) Can  you  get  him  up  at  once?  This  evening? 
Send  him  a  telegram  now — Don't  be  afraid  of  a  long 
one — I'm  paying  for  it.  (Taking  out  half-a>-crown.) 
Here  you  are — That's  a  good  girl.  (Hurrying  her  to 
the  door.}  Off  you  go!  Remember,  I've  got  to  see 
him  tonight.  Got  that?  Good. 

(Miss  Johns  goes  out  still  overwhelmed.) 

Jack:  I  say,  Dad,  you  needn't  go  bustling  the  poor 
girl  out  like  that.  I  could  have  gone. 

Broxopp:  (In  command.)  No,  you  couldn't.  I 
want  you.  Now  then,  Jack,  you  were  offering  just 
now  to  give  me  back  that  money.  I  won't  take  it.  But 
we  shall  want  all  the  capital  we  can  get  for  this.  Will 
you  come  into  partnership? 

Jack:  By  Jove,  rather.  I  don't  know  what  it's  all 
about,  but  I'm  with  you. 

Broxopp:  (To  Jack.)  All  right.  Sit  down.  Draw 
a  hen.  Wait !  Have  you  got  any  ideas  about  Art  for 
Art's  sake? 

Jack:  (Drawing.)  You  wouldn't  ask  that  if  you'd 
seen  my  Academy  picture. 


294  The  Great  Broxopp 

Broxopp:    Good!     A  hen  sitting  on  an  enormous 

egg- 

Iris:  (Looking  over  Jack.)  Doesn't  my  husband 
draw  nicely?  He's  in  work  again  now.  Employed 
regular. 

Nancy:    (Sadly.)    I  can't  think  how  you  do  it,  dear. 

Broxopp:  Above — "Chillingham's  Cheese  for 
Chickens."  Underneath — "Makes  Hens  Lay." 

Jack:    Why  cheese? 

Broxopp:    Why  not? 

Jack:    True. 

Broxopp:    Makes  Hens  Lay. 

Iris:  (Looking  up.)  You're  sure  it  does  make 
hens  lay?  I  thought  chicken  food  only  made  chickens 
grow. 

Broxopp:  (With  the  grim  determination  that  made 
the  Beans.)  If  I  say  that  it  makes  them  lay,  it  makes 
them  lay. 

Jack:  That's  right,  Dad.  Don't  you  stand  any 
nonsense  from  a  Buff  Orpington. 

Broxopp:  It's  a  question  of  faith,  Iris.  If  the  hen 
knows  you  have  faith  in  her,  she'll  respond.  (Ecstati- 
cally to  himself.)  Makes  hens  lay.  I  see  a  poultry 
farm  in  every  back  garden.  I  see  eggs  on  every  break- 
fast table.  Chillingham  eggs. 

Jack:  Chillingham  and  bacon  for  breakfast — 
hooray ! 

Broxopp:  Jack,  as  soon  as  I  get  my  office  fixed  up, 
you  will  be  kept  busy  drawing  posters.  I've  got  plenty 
of  ideas  for  you.  Iris,  will  you  take  a  job  as  clerk? 
No  salary,  but  we'll  give  you  shares. 

Jack:    Jump  at  it,  darling. 

Iris:    Done,  Daddy  Broxopp. 


The  Great  Broxopp  295 

Broxopp:  (Ecstatically.)  Nancy,  there's  work — 
hard  work  in  front  of  us.  Are  you  ready  for  it? 

Nancy:  (Modestly.)  You've  got  Jack  and  Iris  to 
help  you  now.  You  don't  want  me. 

Broxopp:  Ah,  but  I  must  have  you.  You  must 
always  be  holding  my  hand. 

Nancy:  (Tenderly  as  she  takes  his  hand.)  There's 
never  been  more  than  one  Broxopp  Baby. 

Broxopp:  (With  dignity.)  Madam,  you  see  be- 
fore you  The  Great  Broxopp — (Looking  down  at 
Jack.}  No,  not  the  Great  Broxopp.  Chillingham — 
and  Son. 


THE  LULLABY 

and 

Other  Plays 

By 
Edward  Knoblock 

The  author's  career  as  a  playwright 
has  been  marked  by  unusual  success 
in  a  popular  as  well  as  an  artistic 
sense.  His  plays  hold  a  universal 
appeal  because  of  a  singular  and 
characteristic  blend  of  humanity  and 
technical  perfection. 

Included  in  this  volume  are  The 
Lullaby,  Tiger!  Tiger!  and  Marie  Odile. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Plays  of 
Gods  and  Men 


By 
Lord  Dunsany 


Among  the  most  famous  of  the  plays 
from  Dunsany's  magic  pen  are  the  four 
contained  in  this  collection.  The  en- 
during quality  of  their  popularity  has 
been  proven  by  the  frequency  with 
which  they  have  been  produced  both 
in  this  country  and  abroad. 

The  Tents  of  the  Arabs 

The  Laughter  of  the  Gods 

The  Queen  's  Enemies 

A  Night  at  an  Inn 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Other  Volumes  by  Lord  Dunsany 


Plays  of  Near  and  Far 

A  new  collection  of  short  plays, 
widely  various  in  subject  matter,  but 
exhibiting  the  familiar  Dunsany  qualities 
of  whimsical  fancy,  humor,  and  high 
romance. 

If 

A  full-length  play  which  tells  the 
story  of  a  magic  crystal  that  cancelled 
ten  years  of  a  man's  life  and  substituted 
ten  amazing  other  years  in  an  Arabian 
Nights*  background. 

Don  Rodriguez 

Chronicles  of  Shadow  Valley 

A  fanciful  tale  of  adventure  and 
romance  and  a  swashbuckling  hero  in 
"  the  golden  age  of  Spain." 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Whiteheaded  Boy 

By 

Lennox  Robinson 


With  an  Introduction  by 
Ernest  Boyd 

The  Whiteheaded  Boy  is  the  cleverest 
of  the  comedies  produced  by  the  Irish 
Players  in  recent  years.  It  was  first 
given  at  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin, 
and  then  for  a  full  season  in  London, 
where  it  had  phenomenal  success.  The 
richness  of  its  humour,  the  drollery  of 
the  situations,  and  the  perfection  of  play- 
writing  which  it  exhibits,  place  it  high 
among  modern  plays.  It  represents  the 
best  work  of  the  author,  who  has  been 
proclaimed  as  another  Synge, 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


A     000  467  397 


